by Avi Silver
“But what does it mean?”
“Unwanted,” Polha translated. “Uninvited. A guest who did not ask.”
Conquest, Sohmeng thought numbly, and she suddenly understood why Ahn had seemed so ready to say his goodbyes. They wove through the crowd, approaching a gazebo at the center of town. From this distance, she could see the circle of chairs and the elderly bodies sat in them. The Grand Ones, out in public, attended to by the rest of the hmun. How strange, to see them so openly integrated in a community where the godseye shone on everyone.
She braced herself as she had done at Chehangma’s Gate, those many phases ago. Be better, she thought. Be something they won’t hate. But be yourself, too.
“Sohmeng?”
She stopped in her tracks at the sound of a voice in the crowd, calling her name.
“Sohmeng Par?”
Polha Hiwei was saying something to her, but she had already pulled away. The crowd parted for her as she looked around wildly, her own words catching in her throat. It seemed too dangerous to respond, like she might scare the possibility away by acknowledging its presence. She didn’t dare to ask for this, she didn’t dare to believe—
“Get out of the way,” the voice insisted. “Move, please! That’s my—Sohmeng, Sohmeng!”
The faces of the people blurred together into one unimportant mass. Everything disappeared but the sound of her name, which she followed until she came upon the voice that was calling it out like a new year’s hymn. His hair had grown since she’d seen him last, and there was a new darkness around his eyes, like old bruises that had never quite recovered. But she would know him anywhere. How could she not know the man who had named her?
Even still, she asked: “Dad?”
“Sohmeng,” he said once more, and she fell into his arms. Tonão Sol, her father, come alive once more in the jungles of Eiji.
Do you remember what I told you about the Thousand Hour Siege?
Ahn couldn’t see how that was relevant. He couldn’t see at all; the fabric that had been stretched over his eyes turned the world hazy and imperfect. Feeling the panic that threatened to overtake him, he leaned into his other senses.
This isn’t a test, Ahn. It’s a real question.
The language all around him was unfamiliar, buzzing cumbersome in his ears. If they were still speaking Dulpongpa, he wasn’t sure he’d even be able to tell. And who knew if Sohmeng would help him anymore? His wrists tugged uselessly against the rope, earning him a sharp jab between the shoulder blades and an insult he could not understand.
You’re not paying attention, are you?
Another shove from behind forced him to walking again, one step after another, uncertain of where he would land. He squared his shoulders, breathing slowly in through his nose and out through his mouth. He stumbled in the dirt, and told himself that he knew how to be fearless.
The heat in the back of his neck shifted, siphoning into his earlobe. It throbbed with old memory, and he bit back a groan.
That’s more like it. While I have you, listen closely—no, stop that. Don’t start wondering after me, you idiot. Listen to my words. Trust me.
Alright. So. The Thousand Hour Siege was the last strategic battle in the taking of Qiao Sidh. The Imperial army moved on Gurinn, the last remaining sovereign region on the continent. It had been a long and difficult harvest for Gurinn. People were hungry, and the feudal lords weren’t feeling generous with their granaries; they were too busy keeping an eye on the oncoming army, saving up for themselves. And the army did come.
But the Empire did something unexpected: it approached the peasantry. This time, instead of terrorizing the lower classes, the invaders—sorry, the liberators—took care of them. They brought imported goods to soothe Gurinn’s hungry. They built a magnificent road to open up trade with the rest of Qiao Sidh. They brought music, beautiful music. Soon, less and less of the lower class’ taxes made it to the walled city of Jin Fóll, where the wealthy hoarded their bounty, and hid.
Of course, the peasant towns that remained loyal to Gurinn’s feudal lords felt the pressure from the Imperial army. Embargos could pop up anywhere, and the punishment for stolen goats sure was steep that year. But that’s Discernment for you, huh?
Ahn wondered where they had put his armour, if they had just left it out there in the trees. The thought was unexpectedly upsetting. He hadn’t even wanted that armour, but his father had been so glad to gift it to him, he had looked so proud—
Pay attention, Ahn. I’m trying to keep you alive here.
By the time the Imperial force made it to Jin Fóll, the city had already begun to feel the farmers’ ongoing lack of tribute. Even still, they refused to open their doors—and thus began the Thousand Hour Siege. It was brutal. At one point, the army allowed in a shipment of grain as a mercy, but it was rotten through. Then the water supply turned foul. Divine intervention. And while the wealthy lords suffered inside the city of Jin Fóll, the peasantry thrived in the countryside.
At least, until Imperial assistance stopped. The rations were halted. The road stopped being built. No more music, that’s for sure. And it was all because Jin Fóll wouldn’t open its gates to the invaders and give in to the force that had tilled the rest of the continent.
The Imperial army was organized and powerful. They could have taken Jin Fóll on their own and paid the blood price, but it was cheaper to motivate the farmers with hunger and propaganda. The rumours stoked by the Courtesan General—the wicked doings of the nobles, the feasts they made of their servants, their intention to punish the farmers who accepted Imperial aid—made the poor an army in their own right. Wasn’t she a great-great-aunt of yours, or something?
Anyway, the city fell in one thousand hours. Ninety-eight years and one thousand hours, and Qiao Sidh had claimed Gurinn, and the continent, for the Empire. Death at the prongs of a pitchfork rather than the edge of a blade.
“Why are you telling me this?” Ahn mumbled in Qiao Sidhur. He felt like a madman, drunk on information, on the pure sense of spirit coursing through him. He couldn’t remember the last time the boy had come through so clearly. “You’ve been so quiet, Schenn. I thought that you—”
“Shut up tsongkar,” snapped his captor, half-shoving him up a few bumpy stairs.
I’m telling you this because there’s something you don’t know, Éongrir Ahnschen—
The name jabbed at him, made him want to weep, made him hungry for his blade—
I grew up in Haojost, one of those peasant towns in the land my ancestors called Gurinn. No one alive remembers the world before Imperial rule, but we know the stories—the Empire’s stories, and our own. We’re not stupid, Ahn. We know how we were used, and to what end. We had little love for Jin Fóll, but the road Qiao Sidh built was only ever intended to lead to the heart of the Empire. A vein, not an artery.
Don’t get me wrong, we get by. It’s not so bad back home for the simple farm folk, smiling and waving when the royal parade comes through for the anniversary of our Imperial Adoption. New holidays, new language, aren’t we oh-so-thankful. It’s easy to smile at someone who only ever passes through town.
Sometimes I wonder how many years of loyalty you can buy with one thousand hours. I know, I know—the Empire is generous, and so the Empire is everlasting. Everyone loves the Empire, they say so in the books. And they built us a road.
But there are cracks in the road, Ahn. It wasn’t put down even, not even at the start. Maybe you don’t see them, but I thought you ought to know.
Better late than never, right?
The blindfold was yanked from his face.
Ahn blinked back the brightness. He had been brought onto a large, platformed gazebo and was surrounded on all sides by elders propped up in chairs. Their cheeks were tattooed, and their faces were not friendly. He could see townsfolk gathering, trying to peer in and get a look at him.
His hand flinched against the ropes again. He wanted to give Schenn another tap, to ask for advice that act
ually made sense. In response, he felt the bite of a spear against his back. Apparently Lita Soon had not yet left him.
The woman who had brought him in, Polha something, addressed the circle in her language. He didn’t follow a word.
So it will be a trial then, Ahn thought, feeling far from himself. A trial I can’t participate in.
Years of etiquette training just to die without getting a word in. Or else find a weapon and attempt to cut his way out. He wasn’t sure which thought made him feel more sick. This was all wrong, he hadn’t even wanted to come to Nona Fahang, he hadn’t even wanted to come to this continent. He was supposed to go home, to finish his time at Asgørindad, to get married and have children and become a master one day. He was supposed to live enough of a life for him and Schenn both, not die alone in the Untilled.
“Ahn!” His head shot up at the sound of Sohmeng’s voice. Maybe he wasn’t completely alone. Not yet.
She ran over to him, trailed by a woman—well, maybe not, he hadn’t heard their name yet—who seemed like they had been crying. Upon closer inspection, so did Sohmeng.
This was alarming, seeing as Sohmeng was decidedly not the crying type. He forced himself out of his self-pity, straightening up as best as he could with a spear ready to be embedded in his back. “Sohmeng,” he said, looking her over for injury. “Are you alright? Did they hurt you?”
“No!” she insisted, laughing a little hysterically. “No, this is my—this is...” She trailed off, looking at the circle of elders, and quickly ducked her head in the closest approximation of respect that Ahn had ever seen on her. “Grand Ones, my greatest apologies for the intrusion on your Gate.”
The person beside her shot out a translation, resting a familiar hand on her shoulder. As the elders spoke, they continued the task of translating, moving smoothly between languages.
“Our gate, as you call it, is open to all travellers of Gãepongwei,” one of them said. Sohmeng frowned a little at the word, and Ahn wondered if she didn’t recognize it either. “Though I must say, you are quite unlike any traveller I have met before. Wandering with a pack of sãoni! And with—”
“This tsongkar,” another one of the elders said, looking at Ahn with distrust. He said nothing. It was probably wise not to speak unless spoken to.
“Honestly, we bumped into you completely by accident! Which I’m—I’m really grateful for.” Sohmeng rested her hand overtop her translator’s. “I really need your help. My hmun, our hmun, Ateng—it’s in trouble. See, the Sky Bridge—”
“Your father has told us about Ateng’s troubles,” the elder interrupted. Ahn glanced at the translator, making the connection. He was glad he hadn’t misgendered the man; that wouldn’t have done much for an already ugly first impression. “And we would be glad to hear updates on your hmun’s situation after you explain your connection to this young man.”
Ahn could see the way Sohmeng’s jaw was clenched, the way her fists balled in barely-contained frustration. It was a strange contrast to the quiet dread that had knocked the wind from him, leaving him numb.
“My partner and I found Ahn alone, separated from his people. We were hoping we could help each other out.” She glanced at Ahn, a question on her face. He wanted so badly to explain to her that that much had not changed, but felt frozen in this public forum, his left ear still ringing. “See, his hmun—”
“I will stop you there, girl,” an elder interrupted, leaning forward in their seat with a vicious glare that reminded Ahn of his first Discernment master. “He has no hmun. All in our network, in Gãepongwei, are hmun. He is an infection, a pest.”
“Do you want to hear what I have to say or not?” Sohmeng snapped. Her father was translating with an apologetic look, but Sohmeng made no move to soften her tone. “We found Ahn alone, and were planning on bringing him back to his campaign—the, the group of people he came here with. I thought that he could talk to whoever’s in charge and explain that they interfered with the sãoni’s migration route, and—”
“The sãoni are not our biggest problem right now,” the elder retorted.
A deadly quiet seemed to overtake Sohmeng, and she took a moment before she spoke. “...you know, they kind of are, actually. Seeing as they destroyed my family’s life.”
Where many of the elders looked at the two of them with sympathy, the speaker was unmoved. “And now you cohabitate with them,” they said. “And with him.”
A nearby elder leaned forward, gesturing to Sohmeng. “Is that a ring of his you wear?”
“I got this from a bird!” Sohmeng shouted, pressing her palms to her eyes. The silver caught the light, sending a murmur through the gathered crowd. “I didn’t even know Ahn back then!”
Ahn felt overcome by a nauseating sense of stage fright. Being raised in the royal family had gotten him used to being in the public eye, but he had never known how to manage the rare occasions when that eye turned critical. Now, he was literally in the center of a room that hated him.
There were too many voices for Sohmeng’s father to keep up with. Soon, one rose above the rest, and the room quieted to hear it out. Apparently this congested form of communication was typical for this hmun.
The speaker shifted in their chair, as if trying to get a better look at them. “Thank you for your account, Sohmeng. As we have already said, we are glad to hear Ateng’s troubles later. Your father has long been a member of our community, and we would not dismiss his daughter so quickly. But we must consider the more immediate trouble that stands before us.”
Sohmeng seemed more than ready to continue arguing, but forced herself still. “Yes, Grandmother Pel.”
Ahn kept his eyes to the ground, but he could feel the elder’s attention fixed on him.
“What is your name, boy?” Grandmother Pel asked.
It had been a long time since anyone had referred to him as a boy. Since his Six-ing, Ahn had existed somewhere between man and walking myth, with expectations placed on him from both directions. He had taken great pains in university to let himself be seen as young again, and even then, Master Hvu was one of the only people who truly treated him as a novice. Hearing it now felt less like a shame tactic than it did a second chance. The young were always more easily forgiven.
“Éongrir Ahnschen-Eløndham, Qøngemzhir, Sølshendasá, Siengunghvøs—Eleventh Prince to the Qiao Sidhur Empire.” He enunciated slowly and clearly. As he spoke, he got down on one knee before them. The act was disorienting; he had never kneeled to anyone but his royal parents. “You can call me Ahnschen, if it pleases you.”
Simply Ahn would have been easier on their tongues, but he couldn’t dismiss Schenn again, not after the first clear communication he had been given in months.
“...Ahn, get up,” Sohmeng muttered, tugging at his shirtsleeve. “What are you doing?”
“It doesn’t please us to call you much of anything, Ahnschen,” Grandmother Pel said. “Might you know why?”
He hesitated. “The—the campaign, yes?”
“The invasion.” Invasion wasn’t a perfect translation for the word she was using. That word was more personal, intimate. A word meant for transgressions between neighbours rather than large-scale acts of domination. He had learned it back in the first hmun he had landed in. Invaded. “Over the past cycle, we have seen attacks on two hmun in the north—Hosaisi, and Kongkempei. Our trading partners, our cousins. Some have been forced to flee to Nona Fahang, to seek our protection from your—”
He didn’t understand the last word she said. What he did understand was the sharp intake of breath from Sohmeng beside him, the pummeling disappointment.
But this was all wrong—this wasn’t how it was supposed to have happened. He thought of long nights in the command tents with his sister, going over Qiao Sidhur historical strategies. They were supposed to first greet the people of the Untilled, to welcome them into the Empire. It was never supposed to have begun with violence. If their strategy was sound enough, any war they did wage would have b
een noble.
“That... that isn’t right,” he said weakly. The spear in his back pressed harder, forcing him forward to avoid being pierced. “We were supposed to talk first, to—”
He looked to Sohmeng out of habit, seeking her help in translating the concept of peaceful negotiation, friendly contact. But she kept her eyes on the ground. Something ached in Ahn’s chest, but he lacked the language to explain it to her.
Her father spoke in her stead: “Negotiate?”
“Negotiate,” Ahn repeated, feeling the hollowness of the syllables in his throat compared to the apparent truth of the matter. “We were supposed to negotiate. The Empire, Qiao Sidh, my—my home. We have a lot to offer, we...”
His explanation suddenly sounded ridiculous to his ears, a child’s fantasy. Why would the people of the Untilled, of Eiji, care about the sacred expansion of some far-off empire? Why should his good intentions matter if they had only led to bloodshed? What did this rainforest owe to strangers who entered without asking?
I thought you ought to know. Better late than never, right?
“Ahnschen,” Grandmother Pel said. “Seeing as you are their prince, I take it you have played a part in these invasions.”
“Yes,” he said softly.
“And now you enter our hmun,” she continued. “Asking for... what, mercy?”
Ahn had not asked for anything. But he wanted it, and that seemed to count. “Yes,” he said once more.
“Despite the harm you’ve caused.”
“Yes.”
“Despite those you’ve killed.”
The spear at his back suddenly felt too sharp, too close. In his mind, it pushed itself straight through to his front, yanking down in an old imitation of the scar across his chest. He tasted the pink sands of the arena, the thick incense—
No, not that—
He saw Kongkempei, the hmun that had first welcomed them. He saw fires spreading through the clearing where they had shared so many meals. He heard his sister’s voice and felt his own dread like an eel he’d swallowed alive, he saw the stranger turn on him, screaming in fear, saw his own sword raised again why must these things always end on the edge of his sword—