Veering into the wind, Alejan aimed for the village. Seika watched the houses grow larger as they approached and began to feel excited. So long as I don’t mess anything up or forget what to do, it will be fun. She’d never stayed anywhere other than the palace. She wondered if the pillows would be scratchy or soft, if she’d hear the buoy bells in the harbor at night, and if she’d have different dreams.
Tsuri was nestled against the rocky shore. A pier jutted out into the water, and an array of boats were moored around it. Sailors were tying their sails against masts and unloading nets and traps onto the dock. The town itself was a crescent, with one tall, spired building in the center and a collection of tiny white-and-blue homes around it. As they flew closer, she saw lines of laundry stretched between the houses like colorful flags, catching the last of the setting sun and flapping in the breeze. The lion aimed for the spire.
Alejan circled to land, and Seika saw the townspeople heading toward a square by the tall building. Fishermen left their catch on the dock and hurried over. Children dropped their jump ropes and balls and ran to join them. Men and women poured out of their houses.
“See?” Seika said. “Warm welcome.”
She wished there weren’t quite so many people for her first official appearance on her own. Be brave, Seika told herself. You studied this. She knew what she was supposed to say. She took a calming, cleansing breath, the way her meditation tutor had taught her.
Everyone was cheering as Alejan’s paws touched the cobblestones. He landed in front of a fountain with a statue of a winged lion and rider. The rider was holding a sword aloft in one hand and the head of a koji in another, its monstrous face frozen in a marble scream: fangs extended and many tongues sticking out. Folding his wings, Alejan held his head up in a proud position, a replica of the statue. He looked every bit as noble, Seika thought.
“Knock it off,” she heard Ji-Lin whisper. “You look ridiculous.”
He lowered his front paw and settled his wings on his back.
Seika moved to unbuckle the straps, fumbling with them until at last she heard the click. She slid off Alejan’s back, intending to bow to the townspeople . . . and her knees caved. She caught herself on the saddle. Straightening, she hoped no one had noticed, even though every eye was fixed on her, Ji-Lin, and Alejan. The cheering had died down as the townspeople got a better look at the princesses. She felt a flopping inside her stomach, as if she’d swallowed a fish, when she realized how many people were staring at her.
Their expressions weren’t as friendly as before, though she couldn’t imagine why. The princesses had arrived exactly when they were supposed to. She hadn’t messed up yet.
The crowd began to murmur. Seika felt her stomach flutter again. She was used to people talking about her, in front of her, and around her. This was the first time she’d have to address them directly herself. Don’t panic, she told herself, but as the crowd buzzed around them, she suddenly couldn’t remember what she was supposed to say.
I’m not supposed to speak first, she remembered. The townspeople were supposed to be expecting them. They should be the ones speaking, welcoming their imperial guests and continuing the ritual. She forced herself to smile her best princess smile.
One boy, about six years old, was staring at her with his jaw dropped wide. “Are you here to kill the monster?” he asked.
Seika’s smile vanished. “Monster?”
Chapter
Five
JI-LIN DISMOUNTED NEXT to her sister. “Do you mean a koji?” She looked at the faces of the towns-people—tight lips, worried eyes—and knew she’d guessed correctly. She felt her heart beat faster.
“But that’s impossible,” Seika whispered.
She’s right, mostly, Ji-Lin thought. When the magical barrier first went up around the islands, plenty of koji had been trapped within. Over the years, the lions and their riders had hunted them down. Still, it was always possible there were more, hiding in caves or under the sea. Every once in a while, a few would emerge. That was why lions and riders trained.
“Not impossible,” Ji-Lin said. “Just unlucky.” Or lucky, she added silently. If she could defeat a real koji, it wouldn’t matter if her last test was fake, if she hadn’t completed her training, if she’d only passed because Father and Master Vanya wanted her to. This would be her real exam! She could prove she was ready.
The crowd parted as a woman hurried forward. She wore robes that brushed the seashell-paved street and a pendant around her neck that marked her official position: she was this town’s leader, their “caller.” Callers were chosen by the townspeople to be the voice of the town, to “call” out decisions that affected them. In addition to the pendant, she wore decorative chains with charms in the shape of a fish—the town’s symbol. The caller bowed, hands clasped, and Ji-Lin and Seika returned the gesture. Alejan inclined his head.
“I am the caller of the village of Tsuri,” the woman said. “And yes, we might have a koji in the area. We were getting ready to send a messenger bird to the temple, but we haven’t sent it yet. How did you know to come?”
One of the nearby villagers, a young girl, gasped. “She’s wearing a tiara! Mommy, I think she’s a princess!” She tugged on a woman’s sleeve.
“Nonsense.” The woman shushed her. “The princesses are too young to be out on their own. Look at their winged lion—he’s young too. They’re students from the temple, probably sent to assess the danger before the real warriors come.”
Ji-Lin bristled. She was a real warrior! Just unproven.
Seika swallowed so loudly that Ji-Lin could hear her, but then she raised her voice and recited in a clear, ringing voice: “I am Seika d’Orina Amatimara Himit-Re, firstborn daughter of Emperor Yu-Senbi, many times descendant of Emperor Himitsu, he who delivered us to freedom and peaceful beauty, and these are my companions, Ji-Lin, second-born daughter—”
“By eleven minutes,” Ji-Lin muttered.
“—of Emperor Yu-Senbi, and the noble Alejan from the Temple of the Sun.”
The crowd burst into louder murmurs, and there was a flurry of bowing and kneeling. The caller bowed even more deeply as she said, “Princesses? Here? Oh, Your Highnesses, we are honored!” Mimicking her, the others bowed as well. One little girl, maybe four years old, jumped up and down. And the girl who’d noticed Seika’s tiara was so happy that she was hugging herself.
Ji-Lin saw that her sister’s face was flushed pink, but her every move was graceful as she acknowledged the greetings. She looked every inch a princess. Ji-Lin wondered if Seika even knew how regal she looked. Maybe their arrival hadn’t started the way it was supposed to, but Seika had gotten it back on track. I couldn’t have done that, Ji-Lin thought.
The murmurs grew louder, the men, women, and children all talking at the same time, asking questions of one another, of the caller, of the princesses. The excitement was like a buzz that hummed through the village: The princesses are here! The princesses—here!
“If you have a koji in the area, then my kin should have been contacted immediately, as sworn and promised to the first emperor’s sister, the first imperial guard,” Alejan said, louder than the excited whispers.
More chattering.
“What kind of koji?” Ji-Lin asked, raising her voice to be heard over the people. Her voice squeaked on the last syllable, and she knew she didn’t sound as regal as her sister. Nearby, a woman was wringing her hands, but her children were dancing around in a circle and singing about princesses. “Has it threatened the town?”
“No one has seen it,” one man said, “but we’ve lost several sheep. This is a town that exists on fishing and herding. We can’t afford these losses.” His neighbor elbowed him, and he subsided. “But these are not your problems, Your Highnesses. And the koji—or whatever it was; maybe it wasn’t even a koji—may have moved on already.”
Ji-Lin felt her sword’s hilt, a comfortable pressure against her waist. She and Alejan could fly abov
e the town, locate the monster, and subdue it. It was what a hero would do. “We can help you—” Ji-Lin began.
The caller gasped. “Oh no, Your Highness! We couldn’t think to ask it of you. It’s much too dangerous. If it truly is a koji . . . We will release a messenger bird at dawn, whether there’s proof or not, and the temple will send warriors. You cannot risk yourselves! The islands need you!”
I am a warrior, Ji-Lin wanted to say. I will protect you! But before she could get the words out, the caller asked, “Please tell us, Your Highnesses: if you weren’t sent here for the koji, what brings you to our humble town?” She bowed again.
Seika spoke in her crystal clear princess voice. “We are on the Emperor’s Journey. We hope to spend the night in your town, sharing in the ritual of the Journey. Can we count on your hospitality?”
The crowd began to cheer.
Clasping her hands over her heart, the caller exclaimed, “The Emperor’s Journey! Oh! Oh my! Yes, of course you may count on our best hospitality, Your Highnesses. You honor our town.”
I don’t need hospitality, Ji-Lin wanted to say. There’s a monster out there! “You go ahead while Alejan and I find your koji—” Ji-Lin began.
“Please don’t concern yourself. It’s probably merely a wolf, or a mountain lion, or just our overactive imaginations. Nothing worth interrupting the Journey! Oh my, the Emperor’s Journey, so soon! Come with me, and I will see you are given quarters and food.”
“But—” Ji-Lin protested.
The caller bowed again. “It would be our honor, Your Highnesses. Our children and our children’s children will sing of this day.” She sounded so anxious, as if worried that Ji-Lin and Seika would be angry.
Ji-Lin clapped her mouth shut and bowed when Seika bowed.
Shepherding them along, the caller led them through the town. A few townspeople trailed behind them, but most drifted off back to the docks or their houses. The little boy who had asked about the monster stuck with them, his mother holding tight to his hand. He was staring at the princesses.
“I should hunt this koji,” Ji-Lin said under her breath to Seika.
“Ji-Lin, the Journey is a great responsibility. You see how excited these people are! They know the bargain must be renewed, or the magical barrier will fall and the islands will be laid bare to all the dangers of the world.” Seika sounded as if she was quoting something—some lesson, Ji-Lin guessed. She wasn’t looking at Ji-Lin. Her eyes were fixed firmly ahead, at the back of the caller’s robes. “They want us to continue on.”
“I’m not saying we should stop the ritual,” Ji-Lin said. “Alejan and I could fly over the village while you do whatever is needed with the people. You don’t need me for listening to old stories—”
“No!” Seika said.
The caller looked back at them.
Lowering her voice, Seika said, “It’s too dangerous. You could be hurt. Or eaten!”
Ji-Lin snorted and opened her mouth to reply—
“Over here, Your Highnesses, if you please!” Up ahead, the caller waved to them by the entrance to a blue house. Four stories tall, it looked like a tiered cake coated in frosting, each floor smaller than the one below.
Seika strode forward, and Ji-Lin trotted after her. Again in her princess voice, Seika said, “Thank you for your hospitality.” The caller bowed even deeper than before, and the princesses returned the bow.
They were ushered inside.
It was an inn. Ji-Lin had never been in one, and from the way Seika was looking around, apparently neither had she. Judging by the long tables, the first floor was a dining area. Each table had been set with napkins folded into the shape of birds.
The innkeeper bustled over to them and ushered them to a table in the middle of the room. Other patrons—who Ji-Lin suspected had come to gawk at the princesses and the winged lion—filled tables around the edges of the room, so that Ji-Lin felt as if they were on a stage, even though it was the villagers who prepared to perform.
Stepping out of the crowd, one villager, a woman in a dress painted with white blossoms and fish, bowed and said, “We would be honored to tell you a tale.”
“And we would be honored to hear it,” Seika said graciously.
“And to eat,” Alejan said.
Ji-Lin shushed him.
The woman in the painted dress was handed a harp—clearly an antique, Zemylan-made, of a metal that couldn’t be found on the islands and was thus irreplaceable, likely brought out only for special occasions. She plucked the strings, and Ji-Lin tried not to wince. The sound should have been mellow, but instead, it was as shrill as a bird chirp. “It is our duty to tell this tale, as prescribed by your father, the Emperor of the Hundred Islands. This is the Tale of the Three Brothers.”
Ji-Lin felt her jaw drop in surprise.
“But Father hates that story!” Seika said.
It was about Father and his brothers. He refused to tell it himself—she and Seika had heard it from their tutors when Father was not nearby.
“It is his will that we tell it and that you hear it, Your Highnesses. This was the charge given us upon your birth.”
The other villagers nodded solemnly, all bobbing their heads at the same time. Ji-Lin had forgotten what it felt like to have everyone in a room focused on her. She wished they were just focused on Seika. She was the heir.
“Once, there was an emperor who had three sons. Biy, the oldest and the heir, was beloved by all. He was handsome and kind, with a generous soul and an open heart. Yu-Senbi, the middle son, was brave and wise. And Balez, the youngest, was a quiet scholar who wished to devote his life to recording the heroic tales of his two older brothers. During their father’s reign, the two oldest brothers completed many acts of heroism, rooting out long-hidden koji and keeping our people safe. Many are the tales of their exploits on the back of the brave lioness Master Shai.”
Alejan sighed happily at the mention of his hero, and Ji-Lin wished the villagers were telling happy tales where everyone was heroic and no one made any mistakes, instead of this tale. She shot a look at Seika, who was focused on the storyteller so intently that she barely blinked.
“After one particularly heroic feat, Prince Biy fell in love with a beautiful maiden with a spirit of adventure that rivaled his own. They were married, but during their honeymoon on the island of Jishin, tragedy struck. An earthquake shook the ground beneath their feet, shook the roof above their heads, and shook the rocks from the mountainsides. The rocks crushed the Palace of Memories on Jishin, destroying irreplaceable treasures and killing the heir’s beloved.”
A whisper of a sigh spread through the villagers.
“Racked with grief, Prince Biy became consumed with thoughts of vengeance. He convinced himself that there must be a way to stop the earthquakes—to kill that which had killed his love. As he sought a cause for the tremors, his wild thoughts led him to the dragon. She formed the islands; she must control the earthquakes, he believed.”
Not true, Ji-Lin thought. The quakes came whenever they wanted and shook whatever they wanted. They weren’t anyone’s fault; they were just a part of island life. Her tutors had emphasized that when they told her this story.
“No one believed Prince Biy would ever let his grief interfere with his duty.” The woman paused her story, bending over her harp to play several discordant chords as the innkeeper began serving the princesses: baked fish; grilled fish; poached, stuffed, and stewed fish.
Ji-Lin hated fish. She hated the smell, the taste, and the slimy feel of it on her tongue, which was a problem, since she lived on an island. And it was more of a problem now, when she knew she was supposed to be polite to their hosts.
Beside her, Seika was eating a taste of every dish. “Delicious,” she proclaimed.
The villagers murmured and nodded. They were pleased the princesses were pleased. The innkeeper was pleased the people were pleased the princesses were pleased. The cooks were pleased the innkeeper was
pleased . . . and so on.
Surrounded by all these very pleased people, Ji-Lin squirmed in her chair. Seika had always been better at this, at being polite. Ji-Lin was better at doing. Couldn’t Seika stay here and listen to this while Ji-Lin slipped out and made herself useful?
The woman continued. “At last the time came for Prince Biy to make the Emperor’s Journey and renew the bargain with the dragon. Per tradition, he was accompanied by his younger brother Prince Yu-Senbi and a winged lion.”
“Master Shai!” Alejan cried. His tail flicked from side to side as if he were an excited puppy, not a dignified winged lion.
“Yes,” the storyteller agreed.
The innkeeper leaned across the princesses’ table. “You aren’t eating, Princess Ji-Lin. Is it not to your liking?” It was a loud whisper that carried across the inn. Everyone turned and stared at her.
Ji-Lin opened her mouth to ask for something other than fish but then felt a sharp jab to her ankle—Seika had kicked her. Ji-Lin forced herself to smile and echo Seika. “It’s delicious.”
More happy murmurs from the crowd.
Ji-Lin felt as if her every movement was being watched and memorized. The villagers would be talking about this for days to come. This isn’t the kind of tale I want to be a part of: The day the princesses ate fish.
“Please go on,” Seika asked the storyteller.
When everyone turned to watch the storyteller, Ji-Lin took advantage of the momentary distraction and held her plate toward Alejan. The lion inhaled everything on it. She put the plate back on the table quickly, before the innkeeper saw.
The boy who had wanted them to hunt the monster giggled.
Ji-Lin met his eyes. She wished she could tell him they were going out to find the koji. I’m sorry, she wanted to say. But there was no way she could leave. The villagers had filled the room, and the caller leaned against the door. Everyone was focused on the storyteller, as if there weren’t a monster out there just waiting for a hero to fight it.
Journey Across the Hidden Islands Page 5