by Alec Hutson
She could. There was a fold ahead of them in the forest, a great hummock of earth covered with scraggly trees and waist-high red grass. A stone door was set into this hill, and long spidery roots had crawled down from the trees above to vein its surface, suggesting that it had not been opened in many, many years. A nervous muttering rippled through the gathered nobles as they finished emerging from the forest and formed a crescent around the imperial palanquins.
Gradually it subsided into an expectant hush. Jhenna thought the seated emperor might stand or announce something, but instead the ancient Winter Warlock in his snow-white robes stepped from the crowd and shuffled towards the huge door, leaning heavily on a staff of gnarled black wood.
“Lo Jin is a hundred years old, at least,” whispered Prince Ma. “I’m surprised he chose to make this journey. He rarely emerges from the red tower.”
The hunchbacked old sorcerer glared up at the vast door. Then he extended his staff and rapped harshly on the stone.
A deep grinding followed, and dust sifted down as the great portal swung slowly open. From the gathered nobles came a few cries, as if some feared what might be revealed.
But it was only blackness, utter and total. Jhenna realized she’d been gripping Prince Ma’s arm fiercely, and she let go, hoping he wouldn’t see her flush of shame.
Now the emperor did climb down from his palanquin. He slowly turned, his stern gaze passing over the great men and women of Shan.
“Some of you know why we are here,” he began, his voice loud and clear. “You remember the last time we came to these doors, thirty winters ago. You know what will happen inside. But most of you do not. This is because it is forbidden to speak of what occurs here today. The punishment is death, for you and whoever you tell.” The emperor paused, letting that sink in. “This is no simple thing we do. We did not come to make an offering to Heaven, or Mother Earth, or the Immortals. We did not come to pray for rain or victory in battle. We came to ensure that our children will live to greet the dawn tomorrow. That the empire – that the Shan – will persist.”
Silence. Most of the nobles must have been ignorant of what would happen, as Jhenna saw surprise in their faces. Only a few of the oldest watched the emperor without expression.
At a signal from the emperor, soldiers who had accompanied their wagons entered the darkness carrying torches and a great rosewood box. Moments later, larger flames appeared within three massive iron braziers, illuminating the depths. Jhenna craned her neck, trying to see what was inside. The cave seemed to have been hewn by hand; the floor had been leveled, and its sides curved up into darkness. At the cave’s far wall another door had been set into the rock. This one was much smaller than the entrance, yet still it towered taller than any man. Aside from the braziers, the only things Jhenna could see within were a chunk of pale white stone and the rosewood box beside it.
Jhenna shivered. Coldness was seeping from the cavern’s mouth.
“You have all felt the earth shake these past few months,” the emperor said. “A chasm appeared in the market square of Tianping town. The eastern walls of Lianjing collapsed. The priests say Heaven is displeased. The scholars say the fires deep under the ground are being stoked by demons. But neither is true.” The emperor pointed inside the cave. “Within there, something sleeps. And it is stirring.”
The three other great sorcerers of Shan came forward to stand beside the Winter Warlock, each wearing the robes of their office. The Autumn Warlock was dressed in the red of fall leaves; the Summer Warlock in the green of fresh grass; and the Spring Warlock wore the blue of swollen rivers. Their ages corresponded with their seasons: while the Winter Warlock appeared to be on death’s door, the Spring Warlock looked only a few years older than Prince Ma. Jhenna had been told that when the Winter Warlock finally passed beyond the veil, the Autumn Warlock would take his place, each of the sorcerers changing their robes, and a new Spring Warlock would be chosen from the ranks of their disciples.
The four sorcerers of Shan stepped inside the cavern. Jhenna saw that the Winter Warlock’s young apprentice accompanied them, supporting the old man by holding tight to his arm. No; that wasn’t right. It looked to her like the Winter Warlock was actually helping his apprentice to stand, since the boy – who couldn’t have seen more than eight summers – was walking unsteadily.
The Summer Warlock bent down to whisper something in the young boy’s ear, then helped him to lie down on the rock. His arm hung limp, his fingers touching the stone floor. He looked to have been drugged.
“No,” she whispered. “No, they can’t do this.”
“What do you think—” Prince Ma began.
The Winter Warlock withdrew a serpentine dagger from the folds of his robes.
“Heaven’s Grace,” murmured the prince.
The Summer Warlock crouched down beside the boy, speaking to him softly. The child’s head was turned toward him, and the sorcerer tenderly smoothed down his long black hair.
The Winter Warlock moved across from the Summer Warlock, where the boy could not see him, and cut the child’s throat in one smooth motion.
Startled cries from the Shan nobles. Jhenna wanted to scream, but she could not find her voice.
A wash of dark blood. The Spring Warlock positioned a container beneath the wound so that much of the blood flowed inside. It also dripped down the white stone, red fingers reaching for the cavern’s floor. For the first time, Jhenna noticed the faded russet streaks staining the altar.
The boy had barely moved, and now he was still.
Shadows pressed at the edges of Jhenna’s vision. She stumbled slightly, and Prince Ma grabbed her arm to steady her.
The four warlocks positioned themselves around the stone, linking hands as they bowed their heads. A hot wind came rushing from the cavern, stinging Jhenna’s eyes and filling her mouth with the taste of ash. The sorcerers let their arms fall, and then the Summer Warlock bent over the boy. Steel flashed. When he straightened, one hand clutched a dagger, and in his other hand he held something that he had taken from the boy with a cut of the blade.
The Autumn Warlock scooped the dead child into his arms, and Jhenna moaned when the boy’s head fell back limply, turned toward the watchers outside the cave. He seemed to be staring right at her, but where his eyes should be there were just dark holes. The sorcerer laid the boy down in the rosewood box, and then the Spring and Summer warlocks each took one of the box’s ends and lifted it up. Jhenna hadn’t seen who opened the far door, but now it gaped wide like the maw of some beast, ready to swallow the sacrifice that had been made.
The horror of this moment was overwhelming. Jhenna’s head whirled, and she felt herself falling, spiraling down. And then nothing.
What happened after, she later remembered as fragments. Stumbling back through the forest, Prince Ma keeping her from collapsing among the moss and leaves. The long wagon ride back to the palace, drowsing fitfully on scented cushions while Tan Pei and Puli curled up across from her, lost in their own memories of what had happened. A servant leading her back to her chambers, and then a deeper, dream-plagued sleep.
When she finally awoke, moonlight drenched the room, burnishing her clothing cabinet and tea table in shades of bone and tarnished silver. She lay motionless, trying to ignore the fading echo of her dreams. But she could not. She had dreamed of a child with a birth cord wrapped around its neck placed upon an altar of white stone. Something had loomed beyond it, a hole cut out of the dark wall – no, not a hole—Jhenna had felt hot exhalations and heard ragged breathing, and the jagged fringe around its edge had not been stone but teeth. The smell of rotten meat and dead things had washed over her and Jhenna had wanted to snatch up the tiny corpse, but when she’d stepped forward the child’s eyes had flicked open and she’d screamed and turned away and fled into the black.
Jhenna pulled her blanket up over her head and shivered. In the warm, clos
e darkness she sobbed for Wei and her baby, for the poor boy in the cave, for herself in this strange and terrible place. She even sobbed for Prince Ma, imagining him as a young boy tethered to a Nasii warrior’s horse, stumbling through the grass.
With some effort she mastered herself, her gulping cries subsiding into whimpers. Then, reminding herself that she was the daughter of a Yari, Jhenna drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
The sobbing continued.
Quiet, but anguished. The back of her neck prickled.
It wasn’t her. It was coming from somewhere else in her chamber.
Slowly, she drew back the blanket. After being in the darkness under the covers, everything seemed brighter, her few small pieces of furniture etched stark in the moonlight. Her breathing thundered in her ears, but still she could hear those tiny wrenching cries. Clouds slid past the window, making the moonlight run like water. Jhenna eased herself up into a sitting position, peering into where the blackness pooled in her chamber: beneath the tea table, next to her bed, beside her clothing cabinet—
Panic clutched at her throat, and suddenly she couldn’t breathe. There was something there, in the shadow of her cabinet. A small, shivering shape.
Please let it be another consort, or a servant fleeing a beating. Reaching within herself for all the courage she could muster, Jhenna swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
“Who’s there?”
No answer. But now there was silence, and the patch of deeper blackness within the shadows had vanished. Jhenna’s feet touched the cool stone, and she took a few tentative steps towards her cabinet.
Nothing. She couldn’t hold back a little cry as relief flooded her. Just a dream. Jhenna climbed back into her bed, forcing herself not to stare where she’d thought she had seen the huddled thing.
She did not fall asleep again until dawn lightened the sky outside her window.
A servant in imperial livery sought her out the next day in the great hall of the women’s quarters, where consorts reclined on velvet couches chatting or doing needlepoint. Jhenna was surprised to see him here, and she noticed every eye in the room following him as he approached her across the inlaid tiles.
“Consort Jhenna,” he said, bowing formally.
“Yes,” she murmured, hurriedly sliding from where she perched on the edge of a divan and standing.
“Walk with me, please,” he commanded. She fell in behind him dutifully as he turned and strode back the way he had come. She saw many heads among the lounging consorts coming together to whisper. More than a few rumors would be born today, she guessed.
They passed out of the women’s quarters and entered the Labyrinth of Ten Thousand Blossoms. He led her along the twisting copper paths until they came to the blood-leafed steppe tree. Prince Ma was sitting under its boughs on a rosewood bench that had not been there previously. He dismissed the servant with a wave, and motioned for her to approach.
“Good morning, Consort Jhenna.”
“Prince Ma.”
They stared at each other for a long moment. The events that had transpired in Sleeping Dragon Valley seemed to hang heavy between them.
Finally, the prince cleared his throat. “I must . . . apologize to you. I did not know what would happen yesterday. If I had had even the slightest premonition, I never would have asked you to be included. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Tears prickled the corner of her eyes.
“And you trust my words?”
“I do.”
He looked relieved. “Good. What occurred in that cave . . . that is the old Shan. My father’s Shan, an empire built on blood and superstition. When I wear the yellow robes, such barbarism will end, I promise you.”
“Then you do not believe what he said? About something in the cave?”
Prince Ma’s mouth twisted. “No. It is a farce by the warlocks to show their worth to the court. I’m certain my father realizes that. And I’m also sure he’s heard the rumblings from the temples that these earth tremors signify Heaven’s displeasure. There were several ranked lamas among those watching yesterday – now he’s given them a new narrative, and one where my father can claim responsibility if there are no more quakes.”
Jhenna considered telling him about the terrible dream she’d had the night before, but finally decided that she should not, given the guilt he was clearly already carrying for bringing her to the cave yesterday.
Prince Ma rose and put his hands on her shoulders. The intensity in his dark gaze made her shiver. “No more children will die like that when I am emperor, I promise you.”
She lay in bed and listened to the thing sob.
Her chamber was cold, as if the wooden shutters had been left open, but she remembered the servant pulling them closed while Jhenna had sat on the edge of her bed brushing her hair. It was also darker than the night before, although some moonlight still silvered the chamber. She wished desperately that she’d left a candle burning on the table when she’d gone to bed; she had wanted to, but in the end had chided herself for her foolishness.
She did indeed feel like quite the fool now, but for the wrong reason.
Was it a ghost? The spirit of the child who had been sacrificed in the cave? If so, why would it haunt her? Could it be Consort Wei? For some reason, she found that thought even more terrifying.
No, it sounded like a child. Small, wracking sobs, like it was trying to be quiet but failing.
Slowly, the paralyzing fear bled away. Jhenna was still afraid, but her terror had lessened to where she could consider what she should do.
If she threw off her blanket and lunged for the door, she could be outside her chamber in just a few moments. Or she could scream for a servant – one would come running soon enough.
A shuddering cry from the shadows. Jhenna felt a flush of shame. She was the daughter of a Yari, and she feared a child’s ghost?
Gathering her courage, she slipped from her bed and approached her cabinet. The sobbing quieted but did not vanish.
“Don’t worry,” she said, willing herself closer to whatever was huddled in the darkness. “I am not going to harm you.”
A stupid thing to say. How could she harm a ghost?
The thing fell silent, but Jhenna could tell it was still there.
Mastering her fear, she crouched beside the shadow. Her skin goosepimpled, as if the legs of countless spiders were crawling up and down her arms.
“It’s so cold there,” the ghost whispered. It was a child’s voice, laced with fear and pain.
“There? Where is ‘there’?”
“In the darkness. We’re so cold under the ground.”
Jhenna swallowed. “Is that why . . . is that why you’ve come here?”
“It’s warmer here. You are so bright and hot.”
The ghost moved out of the shadows. Moonlight fell on pale skin, and Jhenna saw the ragged gash in the boy’s throat.
“Oh,” she murmured. “I’m so sorry.”
The ghost crept closer. “May I touch you?”
Every instinct was telling Jhenna to dash for the chamber’s door, but she steeled herself. This poor, pitiful boy needed her. “You may,” she heard herself say, as if from far away.
Tentatively, the ghost approached her. Its arms went around her neck, and she felt its tiny fingers clutch at her back . . . the same way her brother had once hugged her, before he’d disappeared beneath the hooves of the Mak Yari’s horse. She fought the urge to scream as the ghost’s small head rested on her shoulder. Where the spirit’s skin touched her own, it burned like ice. Jhenna smelled nothing, except perhaps for the faint scent of earth and loam.
“Please,” the spirit said. “Help us get out.”
“Us?”
“The others. We are all scared and cold and want to go home.”
Pity swelled in her che
st. “I would help you if I could. But I cannot.”
“Who can? Is there anyone?”
The name tumbled from Jhenna’s lips before she could consider the wisdom of what she said. “Prince Ma. He has a kind heart. He would help you.”
The cold fingers slipped from her back as the ghost pulled away from her. It receded into the shadows from where it had emerged, becoming more insubstantial, like smoke uncoiling in the sky.
Then it was gone.
Jhenna spent the next morning searching for the servant who had brought her to see Prince Ma the day before. She finally found him in a reception hall, directing two workers in the restoration of a statue of the Enlightened One, which must have been damaged during the recent quake that had shaken the city. A jagged crack had split the serene face of Sagewa Tain, an unsettling reminder of the wound in the ghost child’s throat. She begged the servant to ask Prince Ma to meet her later in the Labyrinth, and without asking her why, he bowed smoothly and left.
She waited on the rosewood bench beside the tsenalish tree until the late afternoon light faded and the shadows gathered beneath the gnarled boles and branches. Jhenna was just about to leave when she heard the ring of footsteps approaching on the copper paths. She quickly stood, smoothing her hair and robes.
Prince Ma entered the small clearing. Something had happened to him: his face was haggard and drawn, and he gripped the hilt of his sword as if he meant to draw it. He saw where she was staring, and let his hand fall from the jeweled pommel.
“My prince,” she asked, stepping forward in concern, “what has happened?”
His eyes were troubled. “Consort, I . . .” His voice trailed away, as if he could not find the words to continue.
“You saw it,” she said.
He glanced at her sharply. “You . . . you saw it, too.”
I sent it to you. Jhenna bit down on this admission. Dispatching a ghost to haunt someone was not something to claim lightly. “I did. It has come to me the last two nights, crying in my room.”