“I’m awake now.” I got up, swaying slightly, and stared out at the familiar hills that crested the borders of the Ikessar and Orenar ancestral grounds. Leafy forests rose over the mountains behind the terraces, broken with steep faces of limestone. “We’re in the right spot.”
“At least, my queen.” She flushed. “If I had gotten you killed, I don’t think Dragonlord Rayyel would’ve forgiven me.”
“Oh, he would if you explained it well. What happened in Bara?”
She nodded as she helped me walk down the road. “My lord admitted to everything. They threw him in the dungeons. I don’t know what Ozo told them, but they’re waiting for you to return and give your testimony.”
I paused. “He… what? But what about the letters? The plan was for us both to be under scrutiny.”
“My understanding is that he embellished his confession, too. He claimed to have sired the child after your wedding, which is why he was born a few weeks later than your own.”
“Rai couldn’t have—he never left my side the first few months of our marriage.” I coughed, wondering at why I was suddenly defending a man who had, by all rights, betrayed me. But there was truth in my words. He was in Oka Shto all those months. “And Thanh—was born early.”
“So I’ve heard. Embellished, as I said.”
“Rai’s not the sort of man who could lie so easily.”
“Lamang must’ve goaded him into it.”
“Lamang?” I asked.
She looked at me curiously. “Inzali.”
“Right. I should’ve guessed. I told Rai she favoured the wounded-deer stratagem—maybe she favours it too much. What would his head on the chopping block do for us?”
“My guess is she did it to keep Princess Ryia at bay, to keep her away from you somehow.” A smile flitted across her lips. “The Lamangs are fairly educated, considering where they grew up. Regardless of what you think, her plan seems to have worked: I’ve heard Princess Ryia has retreated to a town in the north, to the holdings of an Ikessar sympathizer. My lord’s trial will be postponed until your return—hopefully with the beginning of an army at your back.” She craned her head towards me.
I turned in discomfort at the hopeful look on her face. “What of Yuebek?”
“I haven’t heard anything from the Zarojo other than the rest of their army’s abrupt arrival in Bara. I can imagine the newly appointed Warlord Nijo has his hands full.” She took a deep breath. “It is all up to you, Beloved Queen. You must gather your allies. I believe that Inzali has your letters on her person and will dispatch them as soon as you make an announcement. That alone will still Princess Ryia’s hand; your own confession will prevent Yuebek’s claim.”
“I cannot move without knowing my son’s fate,” I whispered. “A weakness, Anya said. I don’t disagree.”
“You love your son,” she said. “Love isn’t always a weakness. Could I trust a leader who doesn’t care?”
“But do I, really? Or am I cloaking my intentions with just the right words, at just the right time?” I swallowed. “The truth is if you told me my son lay on the other side of a thousand innocent souls I have to cut down, I’d be tempted. I would certainly lift my sword, at least. And that… doesn’t make me all that much better than the rest of them, does it? I feel like all this time I thought I’ve been looking through a window, seething at what I saw on the other side, only to find out it was actually a mirror.”
She took my hand and pressed it against her forehead.
“I’m a coward,” I whispered, letting her pay her respects without taking comfort from them. “I may not have what it takes to stand with the whole nation to crush my enemies into dust. I can’t be the leader you’re looking for—I don’t even know who my enemies are. But I know what I am. I am still Yeshin’s, still of his blood. Doesn’t that frighten you?”
“Beloved Queen…”
“Because it frightens me. Queen. Bitch Queen. I could smash the image with a hammer a thousand times and the pieces of that mask would still stick to my face. Every time I try to move from it, I feel as if I’m digging myself a grave, dragging everyone I care about with me.”
We fell into a deep silence, my confession hanging above us like a noose.
“I may… have already begun correspondence,” Namra said, at some point. “Letters sent to Lord Huan and Lady Esh—those most likely to be sympathetic to your cause. I believe Lord Huan is the best candidate for you to seek shelter with. Not only are you friends, but the Sougen is the least traditional of all the provinces, owing to his family’s recent rise to power. He can bolster your new claim, lend you the resources to begin your campaign.”
“You’re forgetting he’s at civil war with Dai Kaggawa.”
“We were hoping if we assisted them, we might put an end to it soon. If we can deal with their war fast enough, we can deal with the other, impending one.”
I crossed my arms. “When did you send these letters?”
“Weeks ago, not long after our arrival in Oren-yaro.”
“I see. Do I have to worry about you, Namra?”
“It was Inzali—”
“Right. The sister is even craftier than the brother.”
Namra cracked a smile. “She told me that one of their childhood games was trying to outwit the other. She’d usually win.”
“I’m not surprised.” I swallowed. “Khine… did you see him in Onni before you left?”
She nodded.
“Is he well?”
“He’s alive,” she said. “But he—”
“That’s all I need to know.”
We came up into the thicket, past the ratty signpost pointing out the direction of the temple, and I turned my thoughts to other less upsetting things. I remembered arriving on this same path the day after I gave birth to my son, memories that seemed to come from yesterday. Cradling Thanh in my arms, still so small I was afraid every jostle would break him, I limped in silence behind the handful of soldiers we had left. Agos walked close, his protective shadow hovering over us.
“Don’t you want me to carry him?” Agos asked, leaning on his halberd as if it was a walking stick. His shirt was soaked in blood and sweat.
I was so distracted by the flutter of Thanh’s heartbeat against my chest that I almost didn’t hear him. “No,” I replied.
“But your wounds—”
“He’s sleeping.”
Agos laughed. “You hear that?” he asked one of the guards who walked past. “The little prince is sleeping. Breathe through your damn noses.”
“Tell yourself that, Captain,” the guard grumbled.
As soon as the rest of the guards walked by, Agos glanced back at me, one hand on his head. He looked like he wanted to say something else. Instead, he said, “Motherhood suits you, Princess.”
“I don’t know what you mean. I’m all ripped up and I can barely walk.”
“Then let me carry him.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what—”
“You’re starting to nag worse than Arro. Go up ahead. Stop worrying about us.”
He grinned. “Hard not to, after the last few days. Seems like bad luck has a way of tailing you everywhere. Hey, Princess. Are you even listening to me?”
But my eyes barely left my son. The feel of him in my arms contained traces of what it felt like to carry him in my belly—a sensation of oneness, of sharing my life with another living thing for the first time. See here, I could remember thinking as Agos’s voice faded into the background. Those are maple trees. In the fall, they turn red, and these forests will be patched with red and green, like the tapestries in your grandfather’s study in Oka Shto. Someday—when the nation is truly at peace—we’ll come back here and have a picnic, just you and I.
I let the memory fade as we entered the canopy of trees, and along with it the echo of my words, so much like my own father’s. Too much like his. In life, in death, we were bound to each other.
CHAPTER TWO
THE ACOLYTE
The temple was exactly as I recalled eight years ago—still made of the same weather-beaten stone, with a single bell tower on the south side. There were figures carved straight into the walls and pillars, carved depictions of all the various gods and deities in Jin-Sayeng: Sakku of the Seas, Omionoru the War God, Aniuha the Snake Goddess, Immiresh the Warrior-Poet, Bathang the Trickster, and others. The alcoves, however, were reserved for statues of the god Akaterru, patron of the foothill and riverland provinces.
We strode up a flight of stone steps and reached a railed platform overlooking the hills and treetops of the forest below. The temple itself was not much of a climb, but from there it felt like you were on top of the world—a contrast with Oka Shto, which was nestled so deep into the mountain that you could only see the rest of the city from certain spots. A peddler ventured towards us, beaded necklaces and bracelets hanging around her arm.
Namra reached into her pocket and paid for one. I watched curiously as she snapped the Akaterru necklace around her own wrist. “I thought you served the Nameless Maker,” I said as the peddler drew away. “Doesn’t the worship of him automatically preclude the rest of Jin-Sayeng’s deities?”
“Can we not live in harmony, regardless of who we worship? I look forward to the day when I see the Nameless Maker acknowledged on these same temple walls.”
“Would that everyone thought the same way.”
“I’m aware they don’t, Beloved Queen, and that likely they never will. But a mere trinket can bring comfort.” She nodded over to the distance, where a priest was standing by the open doors.
“Welcome,” he said as we strode inside, leaving our shoes by the entrance. He was middle-aged, balding, a furry moustache on his upper lip. “Be embraced by the grace of the Blessed Akaterru.”
“I remember you,” I said. “You were here when I arrived with my son.”
“Many mothers have sought shelter with us over the years.” The priest gave a quick nod of acknowledgment.
“We came in after a bandit attack. You gave us swaddling cloths and blankets. You helped me give him his first bath.”
Recognition now stirred in his eyes. “Ah,” he said. “Your little one. The birthmark on his back. It looked like Jin-Sayeng upside-down. A good omen, I remember telling you.”
“You did.”
“He never uttered a single cry. Such a brave boy. Where is he?”
“He’s with… family,” I lied quickly. We had hidden my identity the last time we were here. We were technically still in Oren-yaro, but towns switched allegiances quickly during turmoil. I couldn’t afford to give a place of worship an exception.
“He is well, I hope?”
“As well as could be.”
“Blessings of the god,” the priest said, invoking the sign of Akaterru. “May he be praised for all of time. What brings you here?” He finally turned to Namra. Her robes still marked her as a priestess of the Nameless Maker. Most temples were tolerant of the worship of other deities, and many even encouraged worship of all—it was the Nameless Maker’s priests and priestesses who preferred exclusivity.
“We’re here to seek shelter again. The bandits are everywhere these days, Father.”
The priest frowned. “They’ve grown bolder over the years, and Oren-yaro no longer sends soldiers on patrol in these parts. Times were easier when Warlord Yeshin was alive. His daughter tries her best, but—”
There was the clatter of dropped candles from the altar. “No, Liosa!” the priest called. A woman in acolyte’s robes fled down the hall like a startled cat. The priest rushed to the altar to pick up the scattered things; afterwards, he excused himself and turned to follow the woman, leaving us alone.
I walked to the center of the hall, to the mosaic of Akaterru on the floor. Named as the River God, he was commonly depicted wrestling crocodiles along the riverbank. The blue of the river in this one had turned deep purple with age, and most of the tiles on the god’s face were cracked with faded paint. Namra watched as I walked along the edge of the mosaic, tracing my bare feet along the grooves. After counting the correct number of steps, I stopped and knelt in the center, knees on the ground, hands folded under my chest. I pressed my forehead on the cold floor and closed my eyes.
“I didn’t know you were religious,” Namra said, after I finally lifted my head.
“Only when it suits me,” I replied, giving her a wry smile. “I was praying for my son. I did that the last time I was here and it seemed to have worked so far. Perhaps the god was pleased with him then. I would like to believe that he continues to be pleased and will protect him as a result.”
“Is that how you think prayers work?”
“You forget I am married to one of yours. I’m well aware of your Kibouri’s teachings, priestess. How you believe it is not the god’s but our own actions, that prayers should govern. And perhaps I even agree. But give me this. If you can have your comforts, leave me with mine.”
We were interrupted by the arrival of the acolyte from earlier. She was middle-aged, perhaps no older than Anya, with a single streak of white hair on her head. Her expression, however, was young—like someone who had stopped aging at a certain point and just never absorbed the world’s troubles since. She was holding a tray in her hands, sweet cakes wrapped in coconut leaves.
“Eat,” she said, smiling.
“Liosa,” I replied, getting to my feet. “I remember you.”
She continued to smile politely, nudging the tray towards us. “Eat.”
I thanked her and took two cakes, handing one to Namra. The priest returned, hands folded over his chest. “We do have spare beds,” he said, “if you don’t mind sharing a room with Liosa. Blessed by Akaterru, despite everything, and since you don’t have the boy with you, I’m sure she’ll be more agreeable than last time.”
“Last time?” Namra asked.
The priest smiled. “She was young, and everything terrified her in those days.”
“Babies distress her,” I added. “When she saw Thanh, she began screaming, as if he was some sort of monster instead of a helpless babe.”
“I know a few grown men who would react the same way,” Namra replied.
“Don’t I know that,” I sighed.
“Show them your room, Liosa,” the priest intoned.
She smiled as eagerly as a child in the presence of new playmates. We followed her down the staircase and past the dark halls of the sleeping quarters to a room at the furthest end. As I went to tug at the curtains, letting in a flood of sunlight, Liosa reached for Namra’s robes. Her fingers traced the patterned stitching, a look of fascination on her face.
Namra took a seat and patted the mattress beside her. “There’s a story in that, about the Nameless Maker,” she said. “Do you want to hear?”
Liosa nodded, her eyes bright.
I turned to open the rest of the windows as Namra told Liosa a tale that I remember reading from one of the books in Shirrokaru, one I had tried to memorize in an attempt to impress Rayyel. It was about Thanh, the first Kibouri priest, who arrived in Jin-Sayeng from one of the nations south of the empire. A foreigner, bringing foreign ideas, which the Ikessars embraced readily enough because… I don’t know why. For the slim hope, perhaps, that it would bring change to a land doomed to repeat history. It felt odd to think that I named my son thus. If my father had been alive, he would have demanded something completely different.
“Trying to convert the Akaterru acolyte?” I asked after Namra had finished. “I’m surprised you didn’t catch on fire the moment you stepped foot in the temple.”
“You said you were well aware of Kibouri’s teachings,” Namra said with a smile. “In any case, she doesn’t seem to care one way or another. She looks like she enjoyed it.”
“I’m sure she did. Rai tried to tell me the same story once. I fell asleep as soon as he started speaking. His voice has that quality, doesn’t it? Almost a gift. He’d make an excellent nursemaid if he was
n’t scared of infants. No—” I quickly added, as Liosa approached me. “I don’t know any off the top of my head myself. I can never remember the details correctly. Thanh always hated that. He said I kept changing things.”
“Come now.” Namra grinned. “After the life you’ve led? Surely you can conjure a personal tale or two.”
“What life?”
“Well, there was the time you encountered a mad prince and his dolls…”
“Bad memories don’t make good stories,” I intoned. “And I don’t think she wants to hear about my disastrous marriage. Nobody does.”
“If Warlord Yeshin’s daughter thinks her life is boring—”
Liosa uttered a small shriek and fled the room without warning.
I frowned. “You’ve upset her.”
“Me, Beloved Queen?”
“You called me boring. Maybe she’s furious for my sake.” I peered between the shutters, looking down at the yard below. I spotted a number of chickens milling about, pecking the ground for bugs and stray grain. “I wonder where Anya is.”
“Are you concerned about the bandit, or your father’s sword?”
I turned away, not wanting to admit the truth of it. I could still see its blood-drenched hilt in my dream and longed to have it back in my hands. False courage. I didn’t know how I could make her understand. “I’m impressed at how nothing seems to worry you,” I managed, trying to make light of the situation.
She smiled. “I find worrying to be an oddly useless activity.”
“I’m the complete opposite. I feel as if I’m wasting time if I’m not worrying. Everything worries me. Needling, burrowing endlessly, like worms in my brain.” I folded my hands behind my back and walked to the far end of the room before I turned to her with a sigh. “Do you think my father knew exactly what he was leaving me with?”
Namra pulled her chin up to give me a painful smile. “I cannot say, Beloved Queen. I’m not privy to a dead man’s thoughts.”
The Dragon of Jin-Sayeng Page 25