She wondered if her sister felt the same way. She didn’t look as if she did. She was still enrapt, listening to the story of their father and uncles. Didn’t she know the worst part of the story was coming next?
“At dawn, the heir, Prince Biy, eschewed tradition and insisted he enter the shrine alone . . . and then, instead of bargaining with the dragon”—she paused dramatically—“he challenged her.”
And there it was—the reason Father hated this story. Ji-Lin felt her face blushing bright red, and she squirmed in her chair. Their own uncle had betrayed their people.
“We do not know what the prince said, but his words filled the dragon with fury. Enraged, the dragon caused the volcano to awaken.” Leaning over the ancient harp again, the storyteller played a few more notes before she said softly, “Many died, including Prince Biy himself. Master Shai and Prince Yu-Senbi flew high to escape the fire and ash.”
“They fled, but then they were brave!” Alejan said. “They went back!”
“Prince Yu-Senbi became the heir in that moment. Joined by his younger brother, the scholar Balez, they flew on Master Shai into the unquiet volcano. Before the sun set on Himit’s Day, they braved its dangers and completed the Emperor’s Journey. The bargain was renewed, the volcano quieted, and our people were saved.” She plucked a chord that sounded like a goat’s cry.
Seika had stopped eating and was staring at the storyteller with a look of horror. “I didn’t know the dragon caused . . . Father always said that Prince Biy died in an accident.”
“Yeah, an accident involving lava,” Ji-Lin muttered. She’d heard other versions of the story while she was at the Temple of the Sun. One said that Prince Biy hadn’t merely challenged the dragon; he’d attacked her. Another even said he’d hurled himself into the lava after failing to kill her. Many talked about the horrors of the eruption on the island of Kazan. The version she and Seika had been told as little children had left out a lot of the deaths.
“It was Prince Biy’s death that allowed your father, Emperor Yu-Senbi, to complete the ritual in the proper way, thus saving us all,” the storyteller said. “We tell this tale as a reminder of the strength of this ritual and the importance of your task. If you complete it, we will all be safe. If you do not, the bargain will be broken and the barrier will fall. The monsters will come again, and all will be doomed.”
Seika looked pale, and Ji-Lin saw her hands trembling slightly, but she spoke in her clear princess voice. “We thank you for this tale, and promise you that we will not fail.”
The people cheered.
Ji-Lin met Seika’s eyes. And she silently made the same promise.
Chapter
Six
MORNING CAME, WITH yellow light that poured through the inn’s windows. Ignoring muscles sore from the unaccustomed effort of lion-riding, Seika bounded out of bed. A new day, a new place! She dressed, pulling out the travel garments that had been packed for her: a wrap dress and leggings, designed to be easy for her to put on without assistance. She did her hair in a simple twist on top of her head and hummed to herself as she pinned it in place. She was glad she’d been practicing how to do her hair on her own.
“Ugh, I forgot you’re a morning person,” Ji-Lin said.
“I like new days. They’re fresh. No messes yet.” No disappointments. No humiliations. A whole new set of things to get right! She added more pins to her hair.
Ji-Lin grunted and then catapulted herself out of bed. In the mirror, Seika saw her stretch by wrapping her foot around her head and then folding herself in half—Ow! Seika thought; she couldn’t have done that, even without sore legs—and then Ji-Lin ducked into the small closet with the toilet. When she emerged, she was dressed and ready, while Seika was still wrestling with attaching her tiara. It kept sliding down her ear. She added more pins.
“I still think we should go after the koji,” Ji-Lin announced.
Seika froze for a moment, her heart beating faster. Keeping her voice calm, she said, “We’re supposed to continue the Journey.” A pin slipped, and she winced as it poked her finger. “You heard the villagers—they believe in our quest.”
“But they want to be safe, too,” Ji-Lin said, looking alarmingly intense. She’s serious about this, Seika thought as her sister continued. “What if there really is a koji out there, and it gets tired of sheep before the other lions and riders get here?” Ji-Lin waved her hands in the air to punctuate her words. “What if it decides it wants to try the taste of person? We’re here. We could stop it. I could stop it.”
“Or it could eat us. You don’t even know what kind of koji it is.” There were dozens of different varieties, each of them deadly. “Ji-Lin, it’s much too dangerous. You have to see that.” If she kept her voice reasonable, maybe Ji-Lin would let go of her crazy idea. Seika thought they’d settled this last night. She wished the caller or another adult were here to say no again.
“You’re just scared.”
“Terrified,” Seika corrected her. She wasn’t embarrassed to admit it. Or not very embarrassed. She’d read the histories and heard the tales. Koji were—by very definition—monsters.
“If it were a really dangerous kind, all the villagers would be hiding in the nearest koji shelter. It’s most likely a medium-size monster. Large enough to be a danger to sheep and villagers but not to a trained warrior. Alejan and I can handle it.”
“The villagers will send a messenger bird. That will be enough.” At last she had the tiara secured. With so many pins, it wasn’t going to move even in an earthquake. “If we delay, we jeopardize the ritual. We’re supposed to be at the shrine on Himit’s Day, which means we need to be in the next village tomorrow night.”
Ji-Lin glared. “A koji is more important than being on time.”
Seika didn’t want to argue, not with her sister. Already the day didn’t feel quite as sunny as it had a few minutes ago. But she didn’t want Ji-Lin to run off on her own, waving her sword. “The Emperor’s Journey is more important than a single koji. If the bargain isn’t renewed, the barrier will fall. The islands will be exposed to the world!” She’d read One Hundred Tales of the Hundred Islands at least a dozen times, and she’d even studied the Collected Works of the Winged Masters, which had been written by lion claw dipped in ink and were very hard to read, and everything agreed with that. The Journey had to be undertaken every generation. Now it was their turn. And even if she didn’t feel ready, obviously everyone else—Father, her tutors, the winged‑lion masters—must have agreed that they were ready, or they wouldn’t be here. “Weren’t you listening to the Tale of the Three Brothers? Father stopped a disaster by performing the ritual. Following tradition is important! We have to complete the Journey and bargain with the dragon, the same way our ancestors did, for the sake of all those people out there.” Taking a breath, she tried to change the subject. “I have always wondered why Uncle Biy decided to confront the dragon. What was the point? He had to know nothing would bring back his beloved.”
Ji-Lin scowled out the window, as if she took sunrise as a personal insult. “Father must have been so furious. He was supposed to be a warrior, like me, not the emperor. And Uncle Balez was supposed to be a scholar. Can you imagine your whole life being changed by someone else’s bad choices?”
“Can you imagine making such bad choices that you cause deaths?” Thinking about it, Seika felt as if someone were squeezing her stomach. Her cheerful mood had dissolved like sugar in the rain. She sank down on the foot of the bed. The Tale of the Three Brothers was a stark reminder that talking with the dragon could have serious consequences.
“What happened with Uncle Biy and the dragon has nothing to do with us,” Ji-Lin said. “We’re trying to complete a ritual. Uncle Biy was seeking revenge or something.”
“But what if I make a mistake?”
“You’ll do fine,” Ji-Lin said.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you. You always do everything rig
ht.” Kneeling next to their packs, Ji-Lin began shoving everything in, wrinkling the clothes. Seika debated pointing it out but decided not to. Ji-Lin was not a morning person.
“I try,” Seika said.
“So do I.”
Seika didn’t know why Ji-Lin was suddenly so angry, though she had a guess, and that guess was out there eating sheep. She wished she could make Ji-Lin understand. “The ritual matters. Doing things right matters. And I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I’m a warrior! I’m ready to fight! I can defeat a koji. I’m supposed to!”
“You’re supposed to protect me!”
At that, Ji-Lin deflated as if she were a balloon that Seika had poked with a pin. She sat down hard on the bed next to Seika.
“Father should have warned us the Journey was coming so soon,” Seika said. He’d told the acrobats and the dancers and the cooks, but not his daughters. If she’d known, she would have studied more. Practiced more. Asked more questions. Worried more. “Maybe he didn’t want to scare us.”
“I’m not scared,” Ji-Lin said. “We can do this.”
She sounded so certain. Seika wished she felt like that. “Do you remember when I wanted to pet a flying monkey, and you said you could catch one for me?”
Ji-Lin squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh yes.”
“The monkey destroyed an entire banquet.”
“We were four.”
“It ate the grapes, tore apart the turkey, and threw bread rolls at Father.” One had hit Father directly on the crown. There had been a silence, the most horrible silence Seika had ever heard, and then their father made a sound like a little snort—and then he’d laughed. Everyone joined in the laughter until it shook the stone walls, and Seika remembered blushing so hard that she’d thought her cheeks were going to melt off.
“He laughed.”
“And we weren’t allowed at any banquets for six months, until we learned to ‘act our age,’” Seika said, quoting their tutor.
“We were four,” Ji-Lin repeated. “We’re a lot more experienced now.”
Seika raised her eyebrows. “I’ve never been out of the palace. You haven’t been beyond the imperial island.”
“But I’ve trained! I’m ready. I can protect you.”
Facing her, Seika seized her sister’s hands. “Then please don’t fly off and fight a monster! You can’t protect me if you’re dead!”
Ji-Lin opened her mouth, shut it, opened it, and shut it again. She wormed her hands out of Seika’s. “You’re right. Protecting you is most important. We’ll continue the Journey and complete the ritual. I won’t try to hunt the koji.”
Seika sighed in relief. “Good.”
They went downstairs, and the caller was waiting for them, along with Alejan (who had slept outside—he preferred to see the stars; they reminded him of his favorite stories, he said) and what looked to be half the town, and Seika wanted to run back upstairs, crawl under the covers, and try again tomorrow. She made herself smile sunnily at them. The crowd cheered.
The caller bowed. “Your Highnesses, we have prepared the traditional sendoff for you. If you would care to follow me . . .”
“Have you sent the messenger bird?” Ji-Lin asked.
“Do not concern yourself—”
“If you’ve sent it, I won’t worry.”
“Yes, Your Highness, we have sent it, though there were no sheep deaths last night. Our hope is that the koji, or whatever it was, has moved on. But the temple will send lions and riders to be sure. We thank you for your concern.” The caller seemed sincere, and that was enough for Seika. She hoped Ji-Lin would let the matter drop.
Seika hadn’t paid much attention to the town itself last night—she’d been too tired from the flight and too overwhelmed by the crowd—but she looked around as the caller led them through it now. All the houses were painted either white or blue and were built to lean against one another. Cracks split the plaster, a sign of recent tremors. Some of the cracks gaped large, like wounds. Others spread over the face of the houses, looking like veins. All the houses looked old, worn, but lived in. Like a soft, frayed blanket, the kind you wanted to stay wrapped up in all day.
Cats curled on windowsills and on roofs. A few of the cats had wings—she’d never seen so many. Some lived in the palace courtyards, stealing food from the kitchens, but winged housecats weren’t allowed inside the palace. They caused too much trouble. She liked seeing them here—it felt like they belonged, and it looked like they were wanted.
The smell of roasted fish and hot pastries drifted out the windows and mixed with the tangy stench of old fish and rotten eggs. She hadn’t thought about how different a place could smell. The palace smelled of jasmine and baked desserts. But this . . . She inhaled. It tasted different, and that was wonderful.
Pushing the morning’s argument out of her mind, she concentrated on enjoying every second of this.
“Please forgive us,” the caller said, “but we only had last night to practice the proper steps . . .” She clapped her hands, and a group of fishermen and fisherwomen hurried into the center of the street. A drum sounded, measuring out the beats, and the men and women began to dance across the cobblestones.
Seika knew what the dance was supposed to be: an expression of the villagers’ shared hopes and wishes for a safe journey. It was supposed to show the unity of the people, supporting the princesses and wishing them well.
But there wasn’t any unity in this dance. They didn’t have much time to practice, she reminded herself. They were caught by surprise. Their faces were twisted in concentration, and all were staring at their feet. A few of them tripped over stray seashells. More villagers assembled in a line and began to dance, kicking their feet and linking their arms. Some used the wrong feet and kicked their neighbors by mistake.
Just because the villagers were dancing badly, though, didn’t mean the ritual didn’t count. Seika could tell how much this mattered to them. She could read it in their eyes and in their body language: they wanted the princesses to be happy, to like them, to want to protect them.
Seika winced as a fisherman thudded hard onto one knee and let out a word not usually said near princesses. The other dancers shushed him, and he marshaled on.
And Ji-Lin let out a snort.
Shooting her a look, Seika saw that Ji-Lin had clapped her hands over her mouth. She was trying not to laugh. Seeing her, one of the children—the boy who had first mentioned the monster—began to giggle.
It spread. First the children were laughing. And then the villagers. And Seika found a smile pulling at her lips. One of the dancers spun in front of her and held out a hand. Seika wasn’t sure if she was supposed to take it—she didn’t know the steps—but the dancer smiled right at her. Stepping forward, Seika joined the dance. Clasping hands with the villager, she kicked and spun.
As she passed Ji-Lin, Seika reached out and pulled her into the circle. And then they were all dancing together, skipping and swirling and laughing. Even Alejan danced with them, letting the littlest kids ride on him.
When the music ended, everyone clapped and cheered. Cheeks flushed, lips smiling, the villagers all looked at the princesses.
“We won’t fail you!” Seika said in her loudest voice.
From the relief that shone in their eyes, this was the right thing to say.
Leaving after that was easy. The villagers thanked them, and all they had to do was wave and smile. Ji-Lin accepted gifts: food for the day’s journey, fresh water, and ribbons to tie to Alejan’s saddle. She loaded the packs onto Alejan, and Seika and Ji-Lin mounted and strapped themselves in.
And then they were flying, over the island and then over the sea.
The ocean between the islands was pearly blue. Seika leaned to the side to see better, and Alejan curved toward the waves. A pod of dolphins leaped out of the water beside them, and sea foam sprayed into her face. Ahead was another island, its peaks a collection of rocks balanced on top
of rocks, all different shades of gray. Within fissures between the rocks, brilliant yellow flowers grew in clusters, so that the precariously perched gray boulders looked painted with spots of sun. She’d seen paintings, but this . . . this was incredible!
Closer to the island, Seika saw figures standing on the rocks a hundred feet above the ocean. One man and two women, wearing thin white bands of cloth as their only clothes, stretched their arms over their heads, bent their knees, and then in unison leaped from the rocks. They dove down the side of the cliff, arms stretched straight.
“They’re falling!” Seika cried.
“They’re diving,” Alejan corrected. “Ooh, ooh, this is the best part! Watch!”
Bodies straight as arrows, the three plunged into the blue water. Waves closed behind them. Alejan circled lower, and Seika and Ji-Lin watched the water, waiting for the divers to emerge, watching and waiting . . . and then one burst to the surface, followed by another, then another. One of the women punched a fist in the air, spraying water around her.
Amazing! Seika thought.
“Pearl divers,” Alejan said. “They use the momentum from the fall to propel them to the bottom of the sea. Also, they think it’s fun.”
“They’re crazy,” Ji-Lin said, admiration clear in her voice.
“So says the girl who chooses to fly on the back of a large, majestic feline,” Alejan said, pumping his wings for emphasis. “Admit it: you’d jump if your sister weren’t here.”
Ji-Lin didn’t answer.
Seika pictured the gowns she had, embroidered with hundreds of pearls. She’d never thought much about the people who gathered them. “Each pearl is a laugh at danger.” It was crazy, but also magnificent. Such fearlessness!
“Yes,” Alejan said. “That’s a poetic way to say it. You know, some of our finest emperors and empresses were poets. And Prince Balez, who rides Master Shai, has written several poems that I’ve memorized—”
Journey Across the Hidden Islands Page 6