by Natasha Ngan
And six-year-old me had nodded, believing her. Trusting in the certainty of her words even if the world was trying to prove me otherwise.
Then—a year later. The claws and fire, the crush and cries.
We might be the same deep down, Paper, Steel, and Moon, but it didn’t matter then.
I rub my arms over my pale leaf-thin skin.
And it doesn’t matter now.
On the morning of the fifth day at sea, shouts ring out from the deck. Though the words are muffled, stolen by the wind, one reaches me. It flies into my heart on wings both shadowed with fear and bright with relief.
Han. The royal province.
We’ve arrived.
I scramble to the window. At first I can’t see anything, but after a minute the shape of the coast reveals itself, the city nestled in the bay growing clearer as we approach.
The Black Port, Han’s famous port city. The dark rock of the surrounding cliffs are what gave it its name, and under the glare of the sun the stone has a sheen to it, making it look almost wet. But what strikes me more is the size of the city. It’s bigger than I could possibly have imagined, dense and sprawling, carving a deep line along the coast and backing into the mountainous terrain. Tiers of wooden houses stretch for miles. Their dark walls are stained from the salt-rich air, and their roofs curl upward at the edges like paper that has started to burn.
Mirroring the city, the harbor in front is just as crowded. Thousands of boats cluster in the water, from small fishing tugs with multicolored sails to papaya-shaped boats laden with fruits to round, barrel-like water taxis all in a line, waiting to ferry passengers along the bay, and elegant ships decorated with silk ribbons. We weave through them, drawing close enough to some to make out the individual patterns of their sails, the names scrawled on their sides. There are good-fortune characters, clan insignias, coal-black bull skulls stamped on the scarlet sails of towering military ships.
“You’re alive, then. We thought you were so sick you might vomit up your own soul.”
I pivot round to see General Yu in the doorway.
I give him a scowl. At least I have a soul.
Before I can speak, he waves a hand, already turning. “Come.”
When we emerge onto the deck half a minute later, my hand flies to shade my eyes. After so long inside, the openness of the sky and sea all around stuns me. Everything is luminous. Sun-glazed. As my eyes adjust, I make out our surroundings, from the gaudy-colored sails of the ship docked beside us to the spotted bellies of gulls swooping overhead. The dock is alive with movement. Every gangway, air-walk, bridge, and boat deck swarms with hurrying figures. Unlike at the port in Noei, there are far more demons here—more so than humans—an indication of the province’s affluence and power.
I swallow. The sight of so many Steel and Moon castes is an unwelcome reminder of where I am. Who I am.
I hug my arms around myself, feeling exposed in my tatty clothes.
“General,” Sith announces, appearing at the top of the gangplank. “The carriage is ready.” As he bows, his eyes lift and find me. A smirk plays across his thin lips.
Something hot sparks in my chest as I remember his scaled fingers on me. Glaring, I jut my chin.
“Hurry up, girl,” General Yu growls, shoving me forward.
As we make our way down toward the waiting carriage, the fierce sun pricking sweat under my arms, I scan the teeming dock for escape routes. But it’s broad daylight in the middle of the busiest port in Ikhara—if I run, I won’t get far. And besides, the General’s heavy hoof-fall beside me is reminder enough that I have to be obedient.
Sith comes up behind me to my other side, a fraction too close. “Need a hand, pretty girl?”
I jerk away before he can touch me. “Never from you.”
Well, obedient doesn’t have to mean cowering.
Tien’s proud face flashes into my mind. Wah, little nuisance! Look at you, standing up to a demon like your skin is Moon and not Paper.
The thought brings a sad, defiant smile to my lips. I blow out a breath. Then, rolling my shoulders back, I take the last few steps to the carriage, my chin high. Because if this is to be my fate, I’m going to walk boldly into it on my own two feet.
Without any demon claws dragging me forward.
Outside the port city, our carriage joins a long road winding through the flat land behind the mountains. It’s filled with strange rock formations, scraggly pines, and tiny white wildflowers clinging to their faces. The dry ground is covered in red dust. The air is thick with it, too, coppery clouds kicked up by the horses. Even though the shutters are pulled down and the covering is drawn tightly across the entranceway, the dust still finds its way inside the carriage, coating my skin in a light layer.
I lick my lips. The dust tastes like how it looks—of rust, and dirt, and endings.
All around us, the thoroughfare is a chaotic whirl of activity. There are men on bear- and horseback. Carts pulled by tusked boars. Huge ground-ships with their sails spread wide. While the busyness makes me shrink farther back from the window, General Yu seems buoyed by the energy and noise, and he leans over to my side, pointing out the crests of notable clans.
“See there? The green-and-white flag? That’s Kitori’s reptilian clan, the Czo. Exquisite clothes-makers. Even the King has their fabrics imported. And there—that chain of ground-boats belongs to the Feng-shi. Very powerful family from Shomu province.” An ornate, silver carriage pulls into place alongside us, and the General notes the insignia. “Ah. The White Wing clan. One of the most powerful bird families in Ikhara. Surely even you must have heard of them?”
I don’t give him the satisfaction of admitting I haven’t. Velvet curtains are draped across the carriage windows. I’m just turning away when one of the curtains twitches aside, and my gaze locks with the glossy eyes of a swan-form girl. The white feathers covering her skin are so lustrous it’s as though they were powdered in pearl dust.
She’s so beautiful that I instinctively smile. But the girl doesn’t return it. A feather-clad hand touches her shoulder and she releases the curtain, disappearing behind the smooth gold.
“Filthy felines,” comes a growl from the General.
I glance round, confused. But he’s staring in the opposite direction, his lip furled.
Beyond the other window, a sleek ground-ship is passing by. Marigold sails billow in a presumably magic-enhanced wind. Craning my head to look out, I track the figures stalking the deck. The way they move reminds me of Tien’s feline slink, and beneath the cloths wrapped over their mouths I make out the jut of their maws. Cat-forms. My eyes flick to the sails. Each is stamped with three claw-tipped paw prints.
Our carriage gives a kick, hitting a pothole in the road, just as I place the crest.
The Amala, or the Cat Clan, as they’re more affectionately known. My father has told me stories about them, not even trying to hide the note of admiration in his voice. Out of all demon clans, the Cat Clan is the one Paper castes feel the most affinity for. They’re known for their rebellious nature, uprising and causing trouble wherever they can, especially if it involves annoying the King. I heard they intercepted a wagon carrying crates of the King’s pastries from a specialist bakery in Ang-Khen, Baba told me just a few weeks ago, a glimmer in his eyes. When it arrived at the Hidden Palace, they found that a single bite had been taken out of each of the pastries. Every one.
I push down a snigger at the memory. Now, these are demons I can get behind.
As we watch, two men on horseback ride up beside the Amala’s ground-ship. Wind billows their long peacock-blue capes, so I can’t make out the white brushstrokes that would reveal their clan, but there’s something about the elegant manner in which the men ride that invokes royalty. Even though, of course, they can’t be. They’re human.
One of the Amala’s members leans over the edge of the ship, shouting something to the two men, gesturing wildly. They shout back—or at least they seem to from the movement of
their heads—before pulling their horses away.
“Who were they?” I ask as the men disappear into the lines of traffic.
General Yu doesn’t look round. “The Hannos,” he answers distractedly. Something flickers across his face, gone too quickly for me to interpret.
I’ve heard of the Hannos from my father and Tien, though with none of the warmth in their voices as when they’d spoken of the Cat Clan. The largest Paper caste clan in Ikhara, the Hannos are one of the Demon King’s most prominent supporters. When it comes to Paper clans, one of his only supporters.
So why were two of their men talking with one of the King’s main opponents?
We ride on, day slipping into night as a steady rain claims the land. Hour after hour, the number of travelers drops away. I stare out the window. A moonless sky hangs vast and heavy over the plains. The air is cool, and with the rain the darkness is complete, viscous, like I could dive right into it. An image comes to me of one of the sky gods: Zhokka, Harbinger of Night. How he’d extend his hand to catch me as I fell toward him, a grin of swallowed starlight widening across his face.
“Eat,” commands General Yu suddenly, snapping me from my dark imagining. He hands me a leather flask and a package wrapped in a pandan leaf. “I don’t want you fainting from hunger during your inspection at the palace.”
I take a grateful bite of the fragrant sticky rice inside, the spices warming my belly. “The magic on this carriage,” I begin between chews. I risk a glance at the General. “Was it cast by the royal shamans?”
“Our little village girl has heard of them, huh?”
“Everyone in Ikhara has heard of them.”
He grunts. “I suppose. But the way some in the royal palace revere them, as if they are gods… even the Demon King himself acts as though their powers are holy,” he adds with a snort.
My brow furrows at the General’s dismissal. The royal shamans hold legendary status across Ikhara. Like the Paper Girls, they’re a feature of the Hidden Palace whose mystery has been cloaked with layers of gossip and superstition. The story goes that when the Demon King created the Hidden Palace, he ordered his architects to design an impenetrable fortress. His architects told him there could be no such thing—and so the King had them executed. Their replacements were more careful. After many discussions, they suggested a constant dao to be woven into the perimeter wall. No single shaman could do this, but a group of them, constantly at work, might be capable.
Shamans combining power isn’t unheard of, but it’s usually only a small group working on behalf of a clan or an army, a temporary arrangement. What the King’s advisers suggested was a permanent one. A large group taking turns to craft the magic that would live within the palace walls.
“Is it true there’re over a thousand shamans in the royal guard?” I ask.
“A thousand? That is nothing, girl. There are many thousand. Which is why I didn’t understand—”
The General stops abruptly.
“Didn’t understand what?” I prompt.
With a jerky movement, he gestures to the scar splitting his face. It would be an ugly face even without the scar: the wide, flat bull’s nose, too large between narrow cheekbones; the heavy-set lower jaw. But the scar twists it into a macabre mask, less demon than monster.
“I received this recently in a battle in Jana,” the General scowls, glaring stonily ahead. “I asked the King’s permission for one of the royal shamans to heal it, but… he refused. He told me that battle scars are a badge of honor. Of power. That to want to rid myself of one is a sign of weakness. You can imagine the King’s reaction when I pointed out that he himself has often used magic on his own scars.” A muscle twitches in his neck. “It’s not often I am so foolish. I was lucky he only demoted me.”
I get a sudden flare of empathy for General Yu—which disappears in an instant as he traces a calloused finger along my cheek.
“That’s where you come in.”
I draw back. “What do you mean?”
“It’s true you are no classic beauty,” he muses, looking over me. “You lack the elegance of girls who have grown up in the affluent societal circles. And yet… those eyes. It might just be enough to stir the King’s interest.” He pauses, expression darkening. “At least, let us hope so. The chosen girls will be arriving at the palace tonight. We’ll have to be careful about how we approach Mistress Eira and Madam Himura about you.”
I blink. “The selection process is already over?”
“Weeks ago.”
“Then, what am I here for?” My voice rises. “What happens if they don’t want me?” I grip the edge of the bench, pitching forward. “If they don’t, can I go back home—”
“Of course not,” the General cuts in. “And you will make sure they want you. I need to get back into the King’s favor after the incident with my scar. Sith heard rumors of a human girl with eyes the color of gold, but I didn’t quite believe it until I saw you.” There’s a challenge in his gaze. “Tell me, girl, do you have what it takes to win over the court?”
Anger hardens inside me. So that’s what he’s bringing me to the palace for? A bargaining chip?
“I don’t want to win over the court,” I retort.
Nostrils flaring, General Yu seizes my throat. “You are going to try,” he snarls, “and you are going to succeed! Or else your family—what pitiful part that’s left of it—will be punished. Make no mistake, keeda.” He grasps my wrists and yanks them up to my face, fingers digging into my skin. “Their blood will be here. Do you understand me? On your hands.”
His words chill me. I wrench away from him, shaking, as horror slinks in an ice-cold flood down my veins.
The General laughs. “You think you’re above this. I can see that. But believe me, girl, you are not. Because once you find out what happens to paper gone rotten—when you see what they do to whores who won’t play along—you will beg the palace to keep you.” His eyes glide past me, to the window. “We’re here.”
I whip round. Outside, willowy stalks of bamboo trees are flashing past, an ivory-green blur. Eerie sounds fill the forest—the song of owls, rain dripping on leaves, distant calls from animals hidden in the dark. The air is loamy with the smell of wet earth. After hours of empty plains, the closeness of the trees startles me. We’re passing through them impossibly fast, and even though there’s the snap and sweep of leaves on the carriage’s exterior, the noise is muffled. More magic.
“The great Bamboo Forest of Han,” the General announces, pride in his voice. “Part of the palace’s defenses. Too dense to enter on animal-back, too difficult for an army to traverse. It would take days to tear down a path. Visitors and traders must obtain the correct permits to be granted the daos from the royal shamans that open up this hidden road.”
I watch the trees whip past, my eyes wide. After a few minutes, the carriage slows. The horses drop to a canter, then a trot, as the forest opens, and I reel back, eyes even wider than before.
The Hidden Palace of Han.
Fortress of the Demon King.
Black rock as dark as night; walls so high they eclipse the moon. The perimeter of the palace rears up from the earth like some kind of giant stone monster. Far above, the tiny figures of guards pace the parapet. The walls have an unearthly shimmer about them, and as we draw closer, I notice millions of glowing characters ingrained in the marbled stone, swirling and spinning off one another beneath the rain-slicked surface. The low hum of chanting vibrates through the air.
The royal shamans.
Goose bumps prick across my skin. I’ve never felt magic like this.
“Shut your mouth,” General Yu commands. “It’s not womanly to stare.”
I do as he says, too awed even to be insulted by his comment. The carriage slows to a stop. There’s the squelch of footsteps in the mud. Moments later, a rap on the wood makes me start.
A round-faced bear-form guard pulls aside the cover, drops of rain nestling in the tufts of his brown fur. “G
eneral Yu! Back from Xienzo already!” He bows. “I hope the heavens smiled upon your journey.” When he lifts his head, he blinks at me, ears twitching. “If I may ask, General, who is your guest?”
“Lei-zhi is here to join the court as a Paper Girl,” the General replies with an impatient click of his tongue. “I sent two of my men ahead earlier to inform you. I assume you got the message? Or are we to be kept here waiting outside the palace like a couple of lowly street peddlers?”
The guard dips his head. “Of course not, General. One moment. Let me confirm with Gate Master Zhar.”
I watch out the window as the soldier, hunched against the rain, crosses to an outpost stationed beside a set of towering doors. The gates are set deep into the wall. To each side stand giant pecalang, the statues sometimes placed outside buildings as protection from evil spirits. Most of the pecalang in my village are small, just tokens, really, hand-sized and easily torn from their plinths in a storm. These ones are enormous. They stand imposing at over twenty feet tall, carved in the likeness of bulls, their faces contorted into snarls that seem so real they snatch my breath away. Stone hands grip flame-lit braziers. As my eyes adjust to the light, I notice more statues lined along the wall. Then I start.
Because these guards are alive.
The hairs on my arms stand up at the sight of hundreds of demons standing flank-to-flank along the perimeter of the palace. They stare fixedly ahead, swords crossed at their chests. The wet flicker of flames reflects in their eyes—demon eyes. Gazelle, snow leopard, lion, boar. So many forms I’ve never seen before, and each one Moon caste. Buffalo, wildcat, ibex, ape. Cobra, jackal, tiger, rhinoceros. So many forms I’ve never even dreamed, and the thrum of barely contained strength in each glint of tapered incisor and horn and claw.
I draw back, swallowing.
“Impressive, yes?” the General states, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. Or rather, I don’t speak because I can’t. It’s as though there were hands wrapped over my throat. As though the press of the demons were everywhere.