Empire of Shadows

by Miriam Forster

  “Interfering busybody,” Revathi muttered as soon as they were on the bridge. “Ever since my parents left for Deshe, every merchant, soldier, and lesser noble has been prying into my family’s affairs.” Her voice took on a sarcastic, mimicking tone. “‘Are you sure your father would approve of this purchase?’ ‘Does your mother know you’re in this part of town?’ ‘Whatever would your parents think, dear?’” She scowled. “Bunch of river sharks, that’s what they are.”

  She looked down at Mara. “And now I have you to deal with. Another person watching my every move. That’s really the last thing I need.” She slapped her mare’s shoulder lightly with the leather reins, urging the horse forward, so that Mara had to jog to keep up. “The sooner we get home, the happier I’ll be.”

  MARA FOLLOWED REVATHI over the bridge and into a part of the city that was as different from the Wind Circle as anything could possibly be. Here the streets were full of fruit trees, vegetable gardens, and animals. Mara trotted past a few pigs in a pen and some bored-looking cows. Every intersection was peppered with booths selling produce and other foodstuffs. The scents of baking bread and roasting spiced meat filled the air.

  Revathi slowed her mare to a walk again.

  “Are you sure this is a city?” Mara asked her, trying to lighten the mood. “I thought there’d be taller houses and fewer chickens.”

  Revathi smiled for the first time since they’d entered the city. “This is the Hearth Circle,” she said. “If it has anything to do with growing things, animals, cooking, or hospitality, this is where you find it. The village farmers and fishermen keep booths here all year, and this is where most of the food supplies in the city are sold.” She gestured back at the bridge they’d crossed. “The bridges are named after the circle they lead to. That was the Hearth Bridge. The Hearth Circle and the Wind Circle together are called the Outer City.”

  They crossed another sturdy wooden bridge. This one was polished and gleaming, its pillars carved into the shapes of different Ancestors and monsters of legend. Groups of women in beaded collars and brightly colored asars knelt on the wide steps at the edge of the canal. They laughed and chatted as they washed their clothes.

  There were soldiers at the end of this bridge. Revathi nodded to them, and they let her through. She pulled up her horse to let Mara catch up. “Does this look more like a city to you?”

  Tall row houses jumbled together, keeping the wide streets in perpetual shadow. Shops on the ground floor displayed everything from brilliantly embroidered fabric to wooden kitchen utensils. On one corner, a girl in a peach-colored tunic and trousers danced to the beat of another girl’s drum. At another intersection, a man was blowing glass using a clay blowpipe and a small oven. Everyone was wearing some kind of jewelry. All the men sported at least one earring, many had two or three, and the women bore jewels in both their nose and ears. The air smelled of dust, sweat, and perfume.

  “This must be the Bamboo Circle,” Mara called up, pleased that she didn’t sound out of breath. Her training at the Order seemed to be paying off; she kept up with Revathi’s horse easily. “Merchants, craftsmen, and entertainers, right?”

  “Very good,” Revathi said. “At least you’re not walking in here entirely ignorant.”

  “We’re very well educated at the Order,” Mara told her, straight-faced. “A good bodyguard has to know more than just which end of the weapon is the pointy one.”

  Revathi didn’t smile this time, but Mara thought she heard a touch of amusement in the girl’s voice. “Oh, Garen is going to love you.”

  “Who’s Garen?” Mara kept an eye on the shifting crowd as they walked. She knew from her lessons that the Bamboo Circle was the largest part of the city, and it certainly seemed to be the busiest. People got out of the way of Revathi’s horse—many giving respectful bows as they did so—but there still wasn’t much room.

  “He’s the head of the Imperial Palace Guard and Emperor Saro’s primary bodyguard,” Revathi answered. “He’s also the person you need to ask for permission to access the inner part of the palace.”

  “So the palace is in two parts?” Mara said, trying to get a sense of where they were going. “The man at the gate said something about a wall. . . .”

  “The Imperial Palace isn’t all one building,” Revathi explained. “It’s actually more like a giant park with a lot of different buildings, and it’s divided into two parts by a wall. The larger half is the public part of the palace; it holds the Shrine of the First Emperor, the Palace of Rippling Leaves—where the throne room is—and a few other buildings. The smaller part is the private quarters and gardens that belong to the Imperial family alone.”

  Mara squinted. “Sounds confusing,” she confessed.

  “Oh, it is,” Revathi said. “But you’ll learn. The sa’Hoi are distant cousins of the Emperor, and we supervise most of the administrative tasks of the palace, so you’ll be spending a lot of time on the palace grounds.” She said it carelessly, as if she wasn’t confessing to being one of the most powerful nobles in the city. As if it didn’t matter.

  Mara kept her face blank. Revathi might be trying to intimidate her, or she might not. Either way, Mara wasn’t going to let her know she’d succeeded.

  They walked in silence after that, soon reaching yet another bridge. This one was of heavy dark wood and led into what Mara knew was the Jade Circle. Here there were no shops or booths, no music or shouting or animal noise. Just street after street of white courtyard walls, wide metal gates, and carefully trimmed bushes and trees. There was almost no scent in the air. A few people walked the streets, most of them wearing dark-green tunics, with green dye on their hands or marking their foreheads.

  Mara slowed her steps as she passed a bronze gate stamped with the half-human, half-snake body of a naga. This was where Samara, the weapons master, had told her to go, where Samara’s friend the warrior monk lived. Mara had a sudden urge to knock on that gate and find the welcome she knew would be waiting. Revathi didn’t want her, and Mara knew nothing of human courts or nobles. Everything sounded so complicated in Revathi’s world, and it would be so easy to stop here. . . .

  “Is something wrong?” Revathi looked back, and Mara realized she’d stopped walking.

  “No,” Mara said, with one more glance at the bronze gate. She was more likely to find someone to pledge to if she wasn’t hiding behind walls. She’d follow this path and see where it led. After all, she could always come back. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  Revathi gave her a sharp look. “We’re almost there. Do you need to rest?”

  Mara shook her head.

  Revathi lifted her thin shoulders in a shrug. “Suit yourself.”

  True to her word, it didn’t take long to reach the next bridge. Unlike all the rest, this one was made of thick gray stone. Vines hung from the bridge in green sheets, and red and yellow glory lilies peered through the narrow leaves. And as soon as she stepped foot off the bridge, Mara understood why the nobles’ part of the city was called the Flower Circle.

  Blossoms were everywhere. Orchid trees grew at each street corner, and a colorful riot of flowering bushes lined the stone-paved roads. Noble houses all seemed to be built around large, open courtyards, and Mara caught glimpses of gardens and sparkling fountains through their half-open doors. Men in embroidered tunics and women in patterned asars could be seen walking on the flat roofs, and many of those roofs were also full of green and growing things.

  It was lush and decadent . . . and overwhelming. The scent of the flowers alone was enough to make Mara light-headed, especially after the clearer air of the Jade district. Everywhere she looked, there was someone dressed in silk or chiffon or brocade. Even Revathi’s brown asar looked dim here. As for Mara, she felt grimy and dirty and horribly out of place.

  Then she saw the palace.

  THE KYS’S WAGON was small but comfortable, with carved furniture and flower-painted walls. Emil’s father sat on the wooden bunk that stretched across the back. Behind
his father’s legs, under the bed, Emil could see the copper gleam of a handle: the handle of the trundle bed that he and Stefan had slept in until they had been old enough to have a tent to themselves.

  Emil leaned against the dresser that had been fastened to one wall and waited.

  “Emil . . .” His father shifted on the bunk. “Emil, what do you think of Kizzy Yanora?”

  “Besnik’s daughter?” Emil straightened up. “She’s very nice. And I guess she’s good with a dye bottle in a fight.”

  His father didn’t smile at the joke.

  “Well, Besnik and I were talking,” his father said. “And it’s been several generations since the last clan alliance between the Arvi and the Yanora. I told him that I thought your affections might be elsewhere, but if you and that Sune girl are truly just friends . . .” He spread his hands.

  Emil blinked, the words taking a moment to sink in. “You want me to marry Kizzy Yanora?” he said, and his voice was loud, too loud in the small space of the caravan.

  “Why not?” his father said. “She’s been eligible for marriage for several years, she’s around your age, and she’s one of the most talented dye makers in their camp. She would be a valuable addition to the Arvi.”

  “She’s not a goat, Father!” Emil pushed his hand through his hair, torn between laughter and anger. Even in the middle of a crisis, his father couldn’t stop trying to arrange his life.

  “It’s just a suggestion,” his father said. “The Arvi have had a hard year. A clan-alliance marriage would be good for us right now, if you were both willing.”

  “Is she?” Emil asked, curiosity winning over his frustration for a moment. “Willing, I mean?”

  “I don’t know,” his father admitted. “Besnik was going to speak to her, just like I’m speaking to you. But you should consider it. She’s attractive and intelligent, and I’m sure she finds you agreeable.”

  “Or at least amusing,” Emil muttered. He didn’t want to marry Kizzy Yanora, whose calm smile hid a wicked sense of humor and who always seemed to be gently laughing at people from behind her bright brown eyes.

  “Was I wrong?” his father asked. “Has someone else caught your eye?”

  Emil thought about Mara, the way she’d fought for him and his brother, the way every smile she gave him felt like a gift. But Emil had as much chance of wooing a member of the Order of Khatar as he did of touching the gray roof of the Barrier.

  “No,” he said. “There’s no one else. I just don’t want to marry right now.”

  “A leader should—” his father started, and the banked embers of Emil’s anger flared to life.

  “Maybe I don’t care about what a leader would do!” The words spilled out of his mouth, jagged and harsh. “Maybe I don’t want to be a leader at all.”

  The silence that fell was so stiff and heavy that Emil felt flattened. He curled his fingers into fists, resisting the urge to reach out and snatch back what he’d said.

  “You don’t want to be a leader,” his father repeated. “Since when?”

  “Since . . . I don’t know when.” Emil waved his hands in a helpless gesture. He groped for a way to describe the growing restlessness, the unease that had grown since his mother’s death, strangling him like a creeper vine. “For a while. I wanted to tell you, but there never seemed to be a good time.”

  “And what, if I may ask, would you like to do instead?” Emil’s father said. His voice was flat, and his face could have been carved from stone for all Emil could read it.

  Emil gathered his courage. “I want to apprentice to Uncle Pali and go with him when he travels. I want to see more of the Empire than the parts where we’ve always camped. I’m good at trading, and I think I could be better with some training. And then maybe someday I could be the Master of Trade myself.”

  “I see,” his father said. His voice sharpened. “And what happens to your family while you’re off chasing mist? What happens to your brother?”

  “Stefan’s eighteen, the same as I am,” Emil said. “He doesn’t need me to take care of him.”

  “But you’re the only one he’ll listen to,” his father said. Emil opened his mouth to protest, but his father wasn’t finished. “And what about the rest of the Arvi? What happens to them, if something happens to me? Who will lead then?”

  “Stefan could—”

  “Stefan could not. Your brother has heart, but he is not mature enough to be the leader this family needs.”

  Frustration crawled up Emil’s throat, choking him. “Stefan would walk through fire for this family,” he said. “He might not be the most levelheaded person, but he cares about what’s good for the camp and for us. He just needs time.”

  “We don’t have time,” his father countered. “There are no other boys your age in our family, and who knows what could happen in the future? I need a successor now. We can’t wait for your brother to decide to grow up.”

  “What about me?” Emil said. He felt like a snare was closing around him, binding him tighter than any rope ever could. “Don’t I get a choice?”

  “There is always a choice,” his father said. “You can walk away from the people who need you anytime you like.”

  Emil flinched, and his father’s voice softened. “But I don’t think you’ll do that. And it’s not a bad life, being the leader.”

  “Is that what you told yourself when Mother died?” Emil said. “When you couldn’t be there with her? Did you tell yourself it wasn’t a bad life?” The words felt wrong on his tongue, flat and emotionless. Words like that shouldn’t be said; they should be screamed in anger, thrown like weapons.

  But Emil was too tired to fight anymore.

  Without looking at his father, he turned and left the caravan, shutting the thin wooden door of the wagon behind him.

  Once outside, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, taking comfort in familiar sounds: the giggles of children, the clatter of tools. The hot air wrapped around him, and he felt the muscles in his neck relax.

  Maybe there is something wrong with me, he thought. His father wasn’t asking anything of Emil that he hadn’t done himself. In lean times, the Kys’s food share was always the smallest. When the bitter cold of Earthsleep came, he let the younger children sleep in his caravan, where the thick, wet mist couldn’t touch them. On those nights, he bunked with Emil and Stefan, all of them huddling under goatskins and woven blankets, shoving for space.

  He smiled at the memory. His father would give anything for the camp, and Stefan was the same way. But Emil . . .

  He put a hand over his chest, fingers digging into his skin. If only he could reach inside with his bare hands, pull out his dreams, and throw them away. He imagined leading the camp, living in this very caravan, marrying someone his father approved of. Sacrificing everything for the Arvi, even, if necessary, the people he loved.

  The image left a dry, burned taste in his mouth, like ash. Or maybe it was the aftertaste of the words he’d just said to his father. He wanted to turn around and apologize. But if he went back now, he’d agree to anything his father said. Even to marrying Kizzy Yanora.

  I’ll speak to him tomorrow. Emil pushed his hands through his hair. All he wanted to do now was pack up his tent, get some of the peppery mutton stew he could smell cooking, and get some sleep.

  Stefan was in their shared tent, packing. He was shoving things into bags and boxes with unnecessary force, a dark scowl on his face. He didn’t look up when Emil entered.

  “What a mess, right?” Emil said, trying out a small smile. Stefan turned his back, bracing his foot against a sack of dried onions and tying the mouth of the bag shut with quick, hard jerks.

  “Here, let me help you with that,” Emil said, moving forward. “You shouldn’t be trying to use that hand right now—”

  “Don’t touch me!” Stefan turned on Emil, his face filled with such fury that Emil took a step back.

  Emil didn’t think Stefan could hurt him, not with his arm in a sling. But h
e also wasn’t in the mood for a fistfight.

  “Don’t take this out on me!” he snapped. “I’m not the reason Father’s furious with you.”

  “Of course not,” Stefan snarled. He picked up a small carved statue of the Horned God and put it in his chest, slamming the lid shut. “Nothing is ever your fault. Innocent Emil, just doing what Father wants; no one could blame you. You could leave me something, you know, instead of taking it all for yourself.”

  “What are you talking about?” Emil said. “I’m not taking anything away from you.” He drew a breath. “Look, I know you’re upset, but Father won’t be angry forever. I could talk to him again—”

  “Oh yes, come and save me.” Stefan started pacing back and forth, his angry footsteps muffled by the rugs. “Then maybe I’ll think you’re wonderful, just like everyone else. Isn’t it enough that the whole camp practically fawns over you? Everything is always offered to you, everything you do is praised. Why can’t you be happy with that?”

  Happy. Laughter burned like bile in the back of Emil’s throat. “Why do you care if I’m happy or not?” he said. “No one else does.”

  “Yes, your life is so hard,” Stefan mocked. “I feel so sorry for you. It must be terrible being Father’s favorite.”

  Emil’s frustration boiled over. He was sick of always being in the middle, sick of trying to keep everyone happy, sick of feeling restless and empty.

  Sick of his family.

  “Stefan, shut up!” The words came out quick and hard, like a slap. “I’m tired of hearing you whine and moan all the time. And I’m tired of cleaning up your messes, too. I don’t want to be the leader, but I’m going to have to because there’s no one else but you, and you would tear this camp apart! In fact, you’re already doing it. Father’s right: everything you touch turns to chaos. You’re not a leader, Stefan, you’re a disaster!”

  The two stared at each other across the tent, Emil’s ragged breathing filling the space between them. He braced himself for Stefan’s blow.