The grooms and attendants scattered. Ouyang alone moved towards the pair. His planned movement felt like a choreographed dance, but one that he was only watching. His mare passed Chaghan, not quite a collision, and the dead wolf’s fur brushed the neck of Chaghan’s horse. Its nostrils already filled with the scent of predator, this touch was too much for the poor animal. It gave a tremendous leap, landing badly on its delicate legs and crumpling onto its shoulder with a scream. Miraculously, Chaghan managed to throw himself clear so as not to be crushed. He hit the ground rolling. For a moment it seemed as if that would be all—and then the slope snatched him. His limbs beat out a flailing tattoo as he rolled, faster and faster, and then he plunged over the edge and was gone.
“Father!” Lord Wang’s voice was shrill with horror as he threw himself lengthwise into the dirt at the edge, heedless of his silks. Ouyang, craning his neck for a better view, saw with surprise that Chaghan hadn’t actually fallen. Somehow the Prince had caught a ledge with one hand, and was straining upward for Lord Wang’s hand with the other. It should have been concerning, but Ouyang was as coldly certain as he’d been when he released his arrow at the wolf. Events were unfolding as ordained by fate; there was only one way they could go.
He saw the two reaching hands grasp. The cords in Lord Wang’s neck stood out with effort as he shouted, “General, help!”
Even as Ouyang dismounted, someone screamed. It could have been Lord Wang, but more likely it was Chaghan. There was a soft thump, no louder than peaches falling in the orchard. Ouyang went in a leisurely way to where Lord Wang lay stricken, his hand still outstretched, and looked down. Far below, Chaghan’s purple silks were splashed out like a lone jacaranda blooming in the dust. Dead, Ouyang thought. Dead like my brothers, my cousins, my uncles. Dead like the Ouyang line.
He waited for the expected feeling of relief. But to his alarm, it didn’t come. He had thought this partial revenge would have at least lessened the pain that drove him. It should have made the shame worth it. Instead of relief there was only a growing disappointment so heavy that the weight of it threatened to tear through the bottom of his stomach. As he stood there looking down at the ruined body of the Prince of Henan, Ouyang realized he had always believed revenge would change something. It was only in having done it that he understood that what had been lost was still lost forever; that nothing he could do would ever erase the shame of his own existence. Looking ahead to the future, all he could see was grief.
The sound of an approaching rider came to them: at first a casual gait, then sensing something amiss, gaining speed across the rocky ground.
Esen pulled up and threw himself from his horse. His gaze was on Lord Wang; his expression was of tragedy already known.
Ouyang, intercepting him, grabbed his arm. It was something he had never done before. “Esen, don’t.”
Esen turned to Ouyang with the vacant look of someone not quite registering an obstruction, and pulled away. He strode to the edge and stood transfixed as he looked down at his father’s body. After a long moment he wrenched his gaze to his brother. Lord Wang had pushed himself up to his knees, his face white with shock. One of his sleeves, disarrayed, bared his reddened hand.
As he looked at his brother kneeling beside him in the dust, Esen’s face changed: under the realization of what had happened, it slowly became a mixture of anguish and hate.
13
ANFENG, SUMMER
Following Monk Zhu’s return with the riches and loyalty of Lu, Chang Yuchun noticed that things were changing in Anfeng. On the surface, the changes were what anyone would expect from a monk: he refurbished the temple, had the roof fixed, and filled it with new statues of the Prince of Radiance and the Buddha Who Is to Come. But at the same time the temple acquired a white-sand training ground and barracks to house the monk’s men. The chaotic jumble of tents disappeared, and a foundry and armory and stables took their place. Volunteer peasants flooding in from the countryside were housed and included in the drills that started happening on the training ground under the supervision of the monk’s bandit friend, Xu Da. As they marched back and forth through the temple grounds in their matching armor, with new well-made equipment, all of a sudden Monk Zhu’s bandits and Red Turbans and Lu men no longer looked like a random assortment of people. They looked like an army. And somehow Yuchun himself had become a member of it.
Membership, which brought with it such perks as food and lodging and a lack of people wishing him dead, came with its own caveats. First among them was the monk dragging Yuchun out of bed every morning at the godforsaken Rabbit hour so that some old swordsmaster could drill both of them in the basics of how to fight. “I need a sparring partner,” Zhu had explained cheerfully. “You’re about my level, in that you know absolutely nothing. Anyway! You’ll like it; learning new skills is fun.” Suffering through the drills, Yuchun thought it a blatant lie—until, much to his surprise, it became true. The old swordsmaster taught well, and Yuchun, receiving the first praise and attention of his short life, found that he craved it; he had never been so eager to please.
After training, Monk Zhu rushed off: in addition to organizing his fledgling army and running mock campaigns around the nearby countryside, he was always being called to the Prime Minister’s palace to officiate various ceremonies involving the Prince of Radiance, or say a blessing, or chant a sutra for someone who had died. Somehow Monk Zhu stayed cheerful despite this impossible schedule. During one morning session when the bags under Zhu’s eyes seemed particularly large, Yuchun said, thinking he was just stating a basic fact, “You wouldn’t be so busy if you didn’t have to run to the palace every time the Prime Minister wants to hear a sutra. Don’t you think it’s too much, him expecting you to be a monk as well as a commander? Those are two jobs!”
Seeing the monk’s expression, Yuchun suddenly realized he had made a mistake. Zhu said, deceptively mild, “Never, ever criticize the Prime Minister. We serve him without question.”
Yuchun had spent the rest of the day kneeling in the middle of the training ground as punishment. For just saying the truth, he thought bitterly. Even more embarrassing was that afterwards everyone else in Zhu’s force seemed to know what he’d done wrong. The fucking monk had made him into an example. He’d thought that would be the end of their morning sessions, but the next morning Zhu had dragged him out of bed as usual, and then again the next day, and by the third day it had seemed easier for Yuchun to let his sullenness go. By then he had grasped that Zhu usually had his reasons.
And perhaps the monk had realized it actually was impossible to do everything himself, because towards the end of the month he turned up to training and said, “I have things to do, so you’ll have to learn by yourself for a bit. Now that you know the basics, I’ve found you a new master. I think he’ll be good for you.”
Seeing the person in question, Yuchun howled, “What’s he gonna teach me? He’s a monk!” Honestly, two monks were already more than any army needed, and now there were three. He had a brief, terrible vision of himself chanting sutras.
“Different kind of monk,” said Zhu, grinning. “I think you’ll enjoy his teaching. Let me know.”
Who knew there were different kinds of monks? Apparently this one was from some famed martial monastery; Yuchun had never heard of it. Old Master Li beat Yuchun mercilessly with spears and staves and his rock-hard old man hands, until after a while a few others joined and thankfully diverted his attention. United in pain, they ran laps around Anfeng’s walls and carried each other on their backs and jumped endlessly up and down the temple steps. They sparred until they were covered in bruises and their calluses bled.
Now and then Zhu still found time to drop by and spar with one or another of them in the morning. “I need to keep my hand in,” he said, grinning—and then, looking up ruefully from where Yuchun had put him in the dirt, “I’d worry that I was going backwards, but I think it’s that you’re getting so much better.” He bounced up and dashed off to his next ap
pointment, calling over his shoulder, “Keep up the good work, little brother! One day very soon, we’ll be doing this for real—”
Then Old Master Li came out again and made them work until half of them threw up, and Yuchun thought he honestly might die before he even made it into battle. That whole summer was misery upon misery, and it was only in hindsight that he realized their bodies had hardened, and their minds become those of warriors.
* * *
“Master Zhu.” It was Chen, hailing Zhu as she made her way along the corridor toward the Prime Minister’s throne room. Despite the heat, the Left Minister wore his usual scholar’s hat and gown. His black sleeves, pendulous with embroidery, swayed beneath his folded hands as he gave Zhu a look that had every appearance of casual interest.
Zhu, who knew that Chen’s interest was rarely casual, said mildly, “This monk’s greetings to the honorable Left Minister Chen.”
“I happened past the temple this morning. How surprising to see how much it’s changed! For a monk, you seem to be managing all your resources quite well. You pick up things quickly, don’t you?” He spoke carelessly, as though he were only saying what had come to mind then and there.
Zhu wasn’t fooled. A prickle crept down her spine: the feeling of being watched by a predator. She said carefully, “This unworthy monk has no particular intelligence, Minister. His only praiseworthy attribute is a willingness to work as hard as he can to fulfil the wishes of the Prime Minister and the Prince of Radiance.”
“Praiseworthy indeed.” Unlike other men, Chen rarely gestured as he spoke. The stillness gave him a monumental quality, drawing attention as powerfully as the largest mountain in a landscape. “If only our movement should have a hundred such monks at our disposal. From which monastery did you come?”
“Wuhuang Monastery, Minister.”
“Ah, Wuhuang? Shame about it.” Chen’s expression didn’t change, but underneath it there seemed a redoubling of his interest. “Did you know I knew your abbot back in the day? I liked him. A surprisingly pragmatic man, for a monk. Whatever was required to keep his monastery high and dry, he would do it. And he always did it well, from what I hear, until that mistake at the end.”
I see what needs to be done, and I do it. Had the Abbot ever killed? Zhu remembered herself at sixteen, so eager to be like him. Now she supposed she was. She had murdered a man with her bare hands in the pursuit of her desire. As she looked up at Chen’s smiling tiger face, she recognized pragmatism taken to its natural endpoint: the person who climbed according to his desire, with no regard to what he did to get there. Zhu was surprised to feel, instead of sympathetic attraction, a tinge of repulsion. Was this who she would become in pursuit of her greatness?
For some reason Zhu found herself thinking of the girl Ma, stepping in to prevent a cruelty that Zhu had only watched unfold. An act of kindness that had been met by violence, and in the end hadn’t made any difference at all. It had been the very opposite of pragmatism. The memory gave her an odd pang. The gesture had been pointless, but somehow beautiful: in it had been Ma’s tender hope for the world as it should be, not the one that existed. Or the world that self-serving pragmatists like Chen or Zhu might make.
Zhu bowed her head and tried her best to project humility. “This monk never had such potential so as to receive the Abbot’s personal attention. But even the lowest monk at Wuhuang can be said to have learned from his mistakes.”
“No doubt. It must have been painful, learning that true wisdom lies in obedience.” Chen’s gaze flayed layers from her. Just then they heard voices approaching, and the pressure of Chen’s regard retracted, like the tiger choosing—for the moment—to sheathe its claws. “Do let me know if you have any other needs in equipping your men, Master Zhu. But now come, and let us hear from the Prime Minister.”
Zhu bowed and let Chen precede her into the throne room. His massive bulk moved lightly, clad in that black gown so heavy with its own thickness that it barely moved around him: the stillness of power.
* * *
“We have to take Jiankang next,” Little Guo insisted.
On his throne, Prime Minister Liu wore an irritable look. With the full heat of summer upon them, the inside of the throne room was thick and soporific.
Although at least it wasn’t facing the eunuch general, Zhu would have preferred a more gentle test of her new force. Jiankang, downstream on the Yangzi River, was the main gateway to the eastern seaboard and the most powerful city in the south. Since the time of the kingdom of Wu eighteen hundred years ago it had known a dozen different names under the kings and emperors who had made it their capital. Even under the Mongols, the city’s industries had thrived. So rich and powerful had it grown that the city’s governor had grown bold enough to style himself the Duke of Wu. The Great Yuan’s officials dared not chastise him, for fear of losing him entirely.
Chen’s dark eyes rested thoughtfully on Little Guo. “Jiankang? Ambitious.”
“Shouldn’t we be?” Little Guo’s eyes blazed. “Strong or not, it’s only four hundred li away! How can we keep swallowing our pride by letting it continue on under the Yuan? Whoever occupies Jiankang is the true challenger to the Yuan. It’s rich, it’s strategically located, and it has the throne of the ancient kings of Wu. I would be happy with that.”
“You would be happy with that,” the Prime Minister echoed. Zhu heard his sour, poisonous tone and shivered a little, despite the heat of the day.
Right Minister Guo said carefully, “Your Excellency, Jiankang would be a significant asset.”
“The kingdom of Wu is ancient history,” the Prime Minister said impatiently. “If we take Bianliang, we can put the Prince of Radiance on the throne of the line that bore the Song Dynasty’s Mandate of Heaven. The northern throne of our last native emperors before the Hu came. Now that will be a challenge to the Yuan.” He glared around the room.
The Song Dynasty’s old northern throne is still ancient history, Zhu thought, just as impatiently. Bianliang, the Song emperors’ double-walled capital on the Yellow River and once the largest and most breathtakingly beautiful city in the world, had fallen two hundred years ago to Jurchen invaders—the barbarians that themselves fell to the Mongols. Apart from the modest Yuan settlement that now nestled within its inner wall, the rest of Bianliang was nothing but ruin-dotted wasteland. Old men like the Prime Minister still held the idea of that ancient city in their hearts, as though the ancestral memory of its humiliation was entwined with their identity as Nanren. They were obsessed with restoring what had been lost. But Zhu, who had lost her past many times over, had no such nostalgia. It seemed obvious that the best thing to do was to put the Prince of Radiance on a throne—any throne—in an actually useful city. Why insist on chasing the shadow of something lost, when you could make something new and even greater?
As if echoing her thoughts, Little Guo said with open frustration, “What good does a symbolic victory do? If we pose a challenge, the Yuan will answer. We should do it for a good reason.”
The Prime Minister’s creased face tightened.
“Your Excellency,” Chen murmured. In the stultifying warmth, his massive stillness felt smothering. “If this unworthy official can offer his opinion, General Guo’s plan to take Jiankang has merit. Jiankang may be strong and well resourced, but it lacks a wall: it can be taken quickly, if the attack is sufficiently well organized. That should leave time for General Guo to also take Bianliang before the Prince of Henan’s forces mobilize in autumn.” Chen gave Little Guo a look of cool consideration. “Do you think that is within your capacity, General Guo?”
Little Guo lifted his chin. “Of course.”
Right Minister Guo regarded Chen unfavorably: even in his relief at having the situation resolved in Little Guo’s favor, he apparently thought Chen had overstepped his authority.
The Prime Minister’s sour expression hadn’t evaporated either. He said in ill temper: “Then act quickly, General Guo. Win me both Jiankang and Bianliang bef
ore the Hu come south again.” They all heard, unspoken: or else.
Zhu left with the others, feeling concerned. Her force was still far too small, and a rate of casualties that Commander Sun wouldn’t blink at could wipe her force out entirely. And even apart from that, it was obvious that Chen was planning something against the Guo faction. But what?
Ahead of her in the corridor she heard Little Guo crowing to Sun, “Finally! That old turtle egg sees reason, even if you have to beat it out of him. Ah, the Duke of Wu—it has it nice ring to it—”
“Even better would be the King of Wu,” Commander Sun laughed. “It would suit you, your forehead is as big as a king’s already—”
That was Chen’s mountainous black shape strolling behind the two young commanders, and there was something about the set of his shoulders that made Zhu think he was laughing.
* * *
The evening’s candles were nearly burnt down. Ma was in her room reading one of the diaries she had recently found cached under the floorboards of the Guo mansion’s study. She wondered if the home’s original owner had thought the Red Turbans would eventually leave and he might be able to return, or if he had just been unable to bear the thought of them destroyed.
“Ma Xiuying.” It was Little Guo, letting himself in as though he owned the place.
As Ma turned the page she could feel the imprint of the diarist’s words on her fingertips. The last physical traces of someone long dead. Ma murmured to herself, “I hope he had descendants to remember him.”
“What? I can never understand what you’re talking about.” Little Guo threw himself on the bed. He hadn’t even taken off his shoes. “Can’t you greet me properly?”
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