In front of that massive army, a figure waited on horseback. His armor swallowed the light, glimmering only on its sharp edges. His looped braids were like a moth’s opened wings. And behind him the ghosts, standing between himself and his front line like an army of the dead. The eunuch general.
A vibration of connection pierced Zhu so sharply that she caught her breath from the pain of it. Then, reeling, she shoved the pain and connection from her in a surge of anger. She wasn’t like him—not now, and not ever—because she was Zhu Chongba.
The other Red Turbans, who in previous engagements had always retreated from the Yuan to stay alive and fight another day, suddenly realized that they were about to enter a fight that would last until one side won. And in that instant of seeing the Yuan army laid before them, they knew it wouldn’t be them.
Zhu felt the moment their confidence broke. As a moan rippled through the men around her, she glanced up towards the lake, where the smiling, shadowed faces of the bodhisattva statues looked down on the two armies. Then she walked through her side’s lines and stepped onto the bridge.
There was a single truncated yawp from her unit captain. The chill of the stone rose through her straw sandals. She felt the heavy weight strapped to her back, and the tiny sharp pains in her lungs and nostrils as she inhaled the cold air. The silence felt fragile. Or perhaps it was she who was fragile, suspended in the pause. Every step was a test of her courage to be Zhu Chongba, and her desire for that great fate. I want it, she thought, and the force of her desire pumped her blood so strongly that it seemed a miracle her nose didn’t bleed from it. The pressure grew, all but unbearable, crushing her fears and doubts smaller and hotter until they ignited into pure, burning belief. I’m Zhu Chongba, and greatness is my fate.
She reached the center of the bridge and sat down. Then she closed her eyes and began to chant.
Her clear voice rose out of her. The familiar words gathered into a panoply of echoes, until it sounded like a thousand monks chanting. As the layers built, she felt a strange shiver in the air that was like dread manifested outside the body. The hair rose on her arms.
She had called, and Heaven was listening.
She rose, and unslung the gong from across her back. She struck it, and the sound rang across the high lake. Were the statues leaning towards her to hear? “Praise the Prince of Radiance!” she cried, and struck the gong a second time. “May he reign ten thousand years!”
The third time she struck the gong, the Red Turbans sprang out of their stupor. They roared and stamped their feet as they had done for the Prince of Radiance himself, hard enough that the bridge shook with it and the gorge roared back in answer.
The eunuch general’s only response was to raise his arm. Behind him, the Yuan archers drew their bows. Zhu saw it as if in a dream. Inside her there was only the perfect, blank brightness of belief and desire. Desire is the cause of all suffering. The greater the desire, the greater the suffering, and now she desired greatness itself. With all her will, she directed the thought to Heaven and the watching statues: Whatever suffering it takes, I can bear it.
As if in answer, the shiver in the air thickened. The Red Turbans fell silent, and the Yuan men swayed so their notched arrows trembled like a forest in a breeze.
And then the slope beneath the statues gave way. Loaded with heavy rain, destabilized by the vibrations of the Red Turbans’ stamped and shouted praise, and released by Heaven in response to Zhu Chongba’s call. With a long, soft roll of thunder, the trees, rocks, statues, and earth all slid into the lake just as that long-ago temple had done. The black water closed over all of it and stilled. And for a moment there was nothing.
The first person to notice gave a strangled shout. The scale was so enormous that it seemed to be happening slowly: the surface of the lake was lifting. A great black wave, seemingly stationary except for the fact that the sky above it was shrinking and losing its light as the water climbed between the narrow confines of the sheared cliff face and the steep hill on the other side. Its cold shadow fell over them, and Zhu heard its sound: a roar of pure elemental wrath that shook the ground as the wave overtopped the dam and crested, and broke.
* * *
For one frozen moment, as the water’s roar obliterated every other sound in the world, Ouyang and the monk stared at each other. Ouyang felt a lancing pain—a vibration that pinned him in place, like a spear quivering in a corpse. Horror, he thought distantly. It was the pure, unfiltered horror of his realization of what the monk had done, and in an agony of humiliation he knew the monk saw every flicker of it in his face.
With a gasp he wrenched free of the feeling, turned his horse and ran.
On every side his men were fleeing for their lives, scrambling away from the riverbank as the great black wave thundered down from the lake. Ouyang and his horse struggled up the churned incline. At the top he turned back. Even having had some idea of what to expect, for a long time he could only stare dully. The destruction had been absolute. Where before there had been a bridge, now there was nothing but a rushing brown flow that came twice as high up the riverbank as it had before. Downstream, ten thousand of Ouyang’s infantry and cavalry had either been in the middle of crossing that same river, or else marshaled on low ground waiting their turn. Now, without doubt, he knew they were dead.
Loathing, shame, and anger rushed through him as a series of escalating internal temperatures. The anger, when it finally came, was a relief. It was the cleanest and hottest of the emotions; it scoured him of everything else that might have lingered.
He was still staring at the river when Shao rode up. “General. The situation here is under control. Regarding the others—” His face was pale under his helmet. “There may yet be some survivors who reached the other side before the wave came.”
“What can we do for them now, with the bridge gone?” Ouyang said harshly. “Better they drowned and took their horses and equipment with them, than the rebels finding them—”
The loss of ten thousand men in an instant was the worst defeat the Prince of Henan’s army had had in a lifetime or more. Ouyang’s mind jumped forwards to Esen’s shock and disappointment, and the Prince of Henan’s rage. But instead of producing trepidation, the exercise made Ouyang’s own anger burn brighter. He had told the abbot of Wuhuang Monastery that his fate was so awful that nothing could make his future worse—and for all that this was his worst professional failure, and he knew he would be punished for it, what he had said was still true.
He made an involuntary noise, more snarl than laugh. As he swung his horse around he ground out, “I have to find Lord Esen. Gather the commanders, and issue the order for the retreat.”
8
ANYANG, NORTHERN HENAN, TWELFTH MONTH
Ouyang rode silently at Esen’s side as they approached the Prince of Henan’s palace. In winter they would normally be out on campaign, and the countryside seemed strange under its layer of snow. Located in the far north of Henan Province, the Prince of Henan’s appanage sprawled over the fertile flatlands around the ancient city of Anyang. Farms, garrisons, and military studs made a patchwork all the way to the mountains that marked the border between Henan and its western neighbor Shanxi. The appanage had been a gift to Esen’s great-grandfather from one of the earliest khans of the Great Yuan. Despite suddenly being in possession of a palace, that old Mongol warrior had insisted on living in a traditional ger in the gardens. But at some point Esen’s grandfather had moved inside, and since then the Mongols had lived in a manner almost indistinguishable from the sedentary Nanren they despised.
Their arrival at the gate was greeted by an explosion of activity. Palace servants rushed towards them with the pent-up vigor of a flock of loosed pigeons. Over their heads, Ouyang caught sight of a figure standing in the courtyard with his hands tucked fastidiously into his sleeves. A clot of stillness amidst the chaos, watching. As was his habit, the other had set himself apart: his fussy silk dress was as vivid as a persimmon on a snowy branc
h. Instead of Mongol braids, he wore a topknot. His only concession to proper Mongol fashions was a sable cloak, and perhaps even that was only a concession to the cold.
As Ouyang and Esen dismounted and entered the courtyard, the Prince of Henan’s second son gave his brother one of his slow, catlike smiles. Blood ran strange in the half-breeds. Despite his narrow Mongol eyes, Lord Wang Baoxiang had the slender face and long nose of the vanished aristocrats of Khinsai, the southern city once called imperial Lin’an. For of course the Prince of Henan’s second son was not really his son, but his sister’s child, sired by a man long dead and long forgotten except in the name carried by his son.
“Greetings, long-missed brother,” Lord Wang said to Esen. As the lord straightened from his shallow genuflection, Ouyang saw his cat’s smile had a satisfied edge. In a warrior culture that looked down upon scholars, a scholar naturally took pleasure in seeing defeated warriors coming home in disgrace. With a limp gesture that seemed calculated to annoy, Lord Wang produced a folded document from his sleeve and proffered it to Esen.
“Baoxiang,” Esen said wearily. His face had thinned during the return journey. The defeat had been weighing on him, and Ouyang could tell he was dreading his upcoming encounter with the Prince of Henan—although perhaps not as much as Ouyang was. “You look well. What’s this?”
His brother spoke lazily, although his eyes weren’t lazy in the slightest. “An accounting.”
“What?”
“An accounting of the men, equipment, and materiel lost by your beloved general on this campaign, and the cost borne by the estate for the same.” Lord Wang gave Ouyang an unfriendly glance. Ever since childhood he had been jealous of the favored position Ouyang had in Esen’s attention. “Your warmongering is becoming expensive, dear brother. With things the way they are, I’m not sure how much longer we can afford it. Have you considered spending more time on falconry?”
“How can you have an accounting already?” asked Esen, exasperated. Lord Wang was the provincial administrator, a role he had taken up a few years before. Everyone knew he had done it to spite the Prince of Henan, who despised everything associated with bureaucracy, but nobody could accuse Lord Wang of not having developed an interest in the minutiae of administration. “Even I haven’t received a full report yet! Must you have your cursed bead-pushers everywhere?”
Lord Wang said coolly, “It does seem a number of them died crossing a river, downstream from a notably unstable dam, after weeks of heavy rain. I can’t think what possessed them to try.”
“If you weren’t constantly passing off your men as my soldiers, they wouldn’t have died!”
His brother gave him a disdainful look. “If losses of assets were only recorded when you returned home, they wouldn’t be accurate enough to be useful. And if everyone knew who was responsible for the counting, wouldn’t they bribe the counters? Before you even rode into battle, equipment would already be sold and profits in pockets. You might battle for the glory of our Great Yuan, but rest assured that your men prefer an income. This method is more efficient.”
“Planting spies,” Esen said. “In my army.”
“Yes,” said Lord Wang. “Once you’ve made your own accounting, make sure to bring any discrepancies to my attention.” He paused, and for an instant Ouyang saw a crack appear in that sheen of satisfaction. “But before you do that, our father the Prince of Henan sends word that he will see us all in his study at the Monkey hour. Why, this will be the first time I’ve seen in him in months! I usually never have the pleasure. How glad I am indeed for your early return, brother.”
He swept away, cloak rippling behind him.
* * *
When Ouyang entered the Prince of Henan’s study he found Esen and Lord Wang already standing rigidly before their father as he glared down at them from his raised chair.
The Prince of Henan, Chaghan-Temur, was a squat, frog-cheeked old warrior whose beard and braids had already turned the iron gray of his name. In military power within the Great Yuan he was second only to the Grand Councilor, the commander of the capital’s own armies. Chaghan had spent most of his life personally leading the fight against the rebellions of the south, and had as much warrior spirit as any steppe-born Mongol. Now even in his retirement he was strong in the saddle and hunted with the vigor of a man decades younger. For failures, weaklings, and Nanren, he had nothing but scorn.
The Prince of Henan’s choleric eye fell upon Ouyang. His lips were colorless with anger. Bowing, Ouyang said tightly, “My respects, Esteemed Prince.”
“So this is how a worthless creature repays the house that has done so much for him! Having lost me ten thousand men and the gains of an entire season, you dare come into my presence and stand? Get down, or I’ll put my boot upon your head and put it down for you!”
Ouyang’s heart was thumping harder than it ever did in battle. His palms sweated and his body flooded with the sick anticipation of a fight, even as his throat closed with the effort of control. He felt like he was choking with the pressure of it. After a moment’s hesitation, he sank down and pressed his forehead against the floor. In the sixteen years he had served the house of the Prince of Henan, Ouyang had never forgotten what it had done for him; it was a memory that lay as close to him as his own mutilated skin. He remembered it with every beat of his heart.
“When my son came and asked me to make you his general, I let the foolish attachment of a youth sway me against my better judgment.” Chaghan rose and came to stand over Ouyang. “General Ouyang, the last of that traitor Ouyang’s bloodline. It mystifies me how my otherwise sensible son could have thought anything good or honorable could ever come from a eunuch! Someone who has been proven willing to do anything, no matter how shameful or cowardly, to preserve his own miserable life.” For a moment the only sound in the room was the old man’s harsh breathing. “But Esen was young when I made you. Perhaps he’s forgotten the details. I haven’t.”
The blood pounded in Ouyang’s head. It seemed that there was a flaring of light around him, a simultaneous bending of the lamp-flames that made the room sway as though he were in the grip of a deranging fever. He was almost glad to be kneeling and unable to fall.
“You remember, don’t you? How your traitor father dared raise his sword in rebellion against our Great Yuan, and was taken to Khanbaliq where he was executed by the Great Khan’s own hand. How after that, the Great Khan decreed that every Ouyang male to the ninth degree should be put to death, and the women and girls sold into slavery. Since your family was from Henan, it fell upon me to carry out the penalty. They brought you all to me. Boys with their hair still in bunches; old men with barely three breaths left in them. And every one of them went to his fate honorably. Every one except you. You, who was so afraid of death that you were willing to shame the memory of your ancestors even as the heads of your brothers and uncles and cousins lay on the ground beside you. Oh, how you wept and begged to be spared! And I—I was merciful. I let you live.”
Chaghan put his boot under Ouyang’s chin and tipped it up. Staring up into that hated face, Ouyang remembered Chaghan’s mercy. A mercy of such cruelty that anyone else would have killed himself rather than bear it. But that was what Ouyang had chosen. Even as a boy, weeping in the blood of his family, he had known what kind of life his choice would bring. It was true that he had begged to be spared. But it hadn’t been from fear of death. Ouyang was the last son of his family; he was the last who would ever bear its name. Defiled and shamed, he lived and breathed for a single purpose.
Revenge.
For sixteen years he had held that purpose tightly inside him, waiting for the right time. He had always thought it would be something he arrived at after long consideration. But now, as he knelt there at Chaghan’s feet, he simply knew. This is the moment it all starts. And with the strange clarity that one has in dreams, he saw the rest of his life running out before him, following the purpose that was as fixed as the pattern of the stars. This was his journey to recla
im his honor, and anticipation of its end was simultaneously the sweetest and most terrible feeling he had ever had. The terrible part of it brought out a self-loathing so deep that it flung him out of himself, and for a moment he could only see what others saw of him: not a human but a contemptible shell, incapable of generating anything in the world except pain.
Chaghan dropped his foot, but Ouyang didn’t bow his head. He matched Chaghan look for look. Chaghan said, low and dangerous, “My mercy is exhausted, General. To live in shame, and to bring shame upon your own ancestors, is one thing. But to have brought shame upon the Great Yuan is a different scale of failure entirely. For that, don’t you think you should apologize with your life?”
Then another body was suddenly between them, snapping the tension with such force that Ouyang jerked as if slapped. Esen said, ragged and determined, “Since he is my general, it is my failure.” He knelt. As he pressed his head to the floor at Chaghan’s feet, the nape of his neck between his braids seemed so vulnerable as to invite a hand to be laid tenderly upon it. “Father, it is I who deserves punishment. Punish me.”
Chaghan said in controlled fury, “I indulged you, Esen, with your choice of general. So, yes, take responsibility. And what punishment is fitting? Shall I follow the example of our ancestors, and drive you from the clan to wander the steppe until you die alone in disgrace?”
Ouyang could feel Esen’s tension. It was something that happened infrequently in Mongol culture, but it did happen: a family killing one of its own for some disgrace they had brought to the honor of the clan. To Ouyang, who had endured his entire life for the purpose of avenging his blood, it was a practice so alien as to be incomprehensible. He didn’t know what he would do if Chaghan killed Esen.
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