“But if the Dragon King cannot be defeated…”
“I did not say he could not be defeated,” she corrected him, “only that he cannot be defeated by bringing war to him on his own terms and on his own lands. Even a coin in a purse may wish to be spent wisely, and I am afraid that our beloved emperor is being counseled to cast his pearls before the swine. Not that he has asked my opinion.” Her laughter was self-mocking and bitter.
Jian recalled maps that he had studied. “What if we did not come to this king through his own lands? We could approach by sea…”
“And feed the sea-beasts with our flesh.” She smiled and shook her head. “Oh, if we had a thousand of you Issuq. Or better yet, fifty thousand, perhaps we could persuade the serpents to our cause. But Karkash Dhwani whispers into the emperor’s ear, and Karkash Dhwani is afraid of the sea. It was foretold that his death would come from the sea, and he will never allow such a plan to be spoken of in the emperor’s presence.”
Jian lowered his voice to match hers, conscious of the press of bodies all around them. “What if…”
She cut her eyes at him as they marched on.
“What if Karkash Dhwani did not have the emperor’s ear? What if someone else were to lead the emperor’s armies? Would such a thing be possible?”
“What if, indeed,” she breathed. “You should know that under the direction of His Valiance, the Issuq and the Skaana, the Arluq and the Keyet—every sea-kin child born to the empire—have been all but eradicated. It has taken me a score of years to get two of you, and to keep you alive for even this long.”
“Two of us?”
“It is my belief,” she continued as if he had not spoken, “that if we could find a way to lull the serpents and the sea-beasts, if we could tame the waters of Nar Bedayyan to our cause, if, if, if… it might be possible. If every woman in the empire were to sing praise the sea during the Moonstide, and birth for us a sea-kin prince come Nian-da… perhaps. Perhaps the moons will come down from their lofty seats to dance a jig for us at dinnertime.”
“Do you think they might?” Jian smiled. “I would love to see that.”
“If your tongue grows too sharp, Daechen Jian, I will cut it from your mouth.”
He bowed his head. “Yes, Yendaeshi.”
They came to the end of the Path of Righteousness, and passed through the Gate of the Iron Fist, and the newest Daechen princes set foot for the first time upon the hallowed grounds of the Forbidden City. Jian had walked the streets of the city in his dreams for as long as he could remember, but neither his daydreams nor his nightmares had prepared him for the real thing.
As immense as the Forbidden City had seemed from the outside, it seemed to expand and unfold before him as if by magic. The city was as limitless as the ocean, as beautiful and every bit as perilous. A thin jade serpent of a river writhed before them, spanned by five wide stone bridges. The centermost was the emperor’s Way, and death to anyone else. The Bridges of Daechen were paved in yellow and red, black and white, and carved with symbols of fealty. Across the jade river stretched the wide expanse of Companions’ Square, and he could see that it was crowded already. The Yellow Daechen, youngest and least likely to survive, were last to arrive.
Xienpei and the other yendaeshi led their charges across the yellow-paved bridge, past the cart-merchants hawking their wares, and onto the wide square beyond. Jian followed close at the head of his squad, and his eyes felt wide as an owl’s as he peered at the wonders all about him. The wall, so wide and vast as one approached the city, disappeared from view in each direction, as if the city itself was bigger on the inside. He could just see the Gate of Perseverance on the far side of the square, and great halls and towers to either side of it, slender as sea-reeds and red as garnets in the sunlight.
Tiny pale oval faces peered at them from the windows, and the brightly clad senior Daechen and yendaeshi who were already crowded into the square turned to regard them as well. Jian felt like a small crab that had been spotted by a flock of hungry gulls. A tall man all in black, hair drawn back in an old-style queue and pointed beard gleaming with oil, threw his head back and laughed at them like a barking fox. Jian saw that his teeth were small and sharp and white as jagged bone.
Jian reached up and touched the pearls at his throat. Have courage, my son.
Beyond the pointed man in black, beyond a cluster of red-clad men playing some sort of kicking game, stood a man so brilliant, so apart, it seemed he must have been fashioned from the flesh of the moons. He was clad all in leather armor like the overlapping scales of some great serpent over billowing silk—silver and white and pearl. A pair of massive antlers sprung from his brow. A long, elegant sword hung at his hip, and his eyes were as clear and bright as stars at twilight. Those eyes met Jian’s, and the pale soldier favored him with a long, slow smile before nodding and turning to one of his companions. Jian saw that the man was flanked by pale shadows, soldiers whose arms and armor had been fashioned in imitation. Like… but less.
“Yendaeshi,” he breathed. “Who is that?”
“That,” Xienpei replied, “is a Sen-Baradam with his Dammati. His name is Mardoni, but that is unimportant.”
The Yellow Daechen drew to a halt and waited, every bit as tense as that moment between breaths when it is not sure whether a person will live, or die.
“Dammati?”
“Companions. Bloodsworn. Dammati are sworn to their Sen-Baradam. Their lives are his to direct, to spend, even to end. They would flay the skin off their own backs, did he ask it of them. In return, the Sen-Baradam spreads his power and wealth over the heads of his Dammati even as the emperor shields us with his love.” Xienpei leaned in so close that Jian could smell the mint and garlic of her breath as she hissed into his ear. “Here is the power of Khanbul, boy, and as much freedom as any of us could ever hope for in this lifetime.”
“Freedom?” He held his breath. Did she speak heresy?
“Sen-Baradam belong to the emperor, Daechen Jian, but they belong to themselves as well. Any Daechen may rise on high in the Khanbul. Unlike Atualon, where the Dragon King sucks the world dry and people are born into their place, here Daechen may persevere and become more. You must learn to form alliances and dance the dance of blood and fire. Gain this, and you earn your place in the Forbidden City. Earn this, boy, and you earn your freedom.” Her eyes were fever-bright as she leaned back. “Freedom for your family, as well. Your wives, you children… your mother, should you wish it.”
“Freedom.” As well tell a child that he might hold the moons in his hands. As well weave a net of starlight to catch a dragon.
The pale man turned and walked away without a backward glance.
“Tell me,” he breathed, “how do I become Sen-Baradam?”
Her eyes took on an odd, pale look. “There is a price to pay for this knowledge, Daechen Jian. Are you willing to pay?”
He did not hesitate. “Anything.”
“There is a ritual…”
She took his hands in hers, and her lacquered nails dug into his palms deep enough to draw blood, as she explained to him what he must do. It seemed simple.
It felt like a trap.
“How do I pay for this?” he asked, when she had finished. “I have no coin.”
“All the coin you need is right here, Daechen.” She tapped his chest, just over his heart, and laughed.
“Forgive me, Yendaeshi, I do not understand.”
“You will, soon enough.” She smiled and turned away.
“Xienpei,” called a man Jian had never seen before, dressed as yendaeshi but all in leaf-bright green. “Well met, and well timed! We are commanded to the Hall of the Fallen with all haste to hear the Enlightened word…”
Only yendaeshi were allowed to hear the words of the emperor, Jian knew, and that only after they had passed through the mouths and quills of the Enlightened. Mere Daechen would have to rely on the wisdom of their betters to distill and disseminate the word as they would, and of the
se the Yellow Daechen were least, and last.
They would spend this evening in the western barracks, and return to the square for the Feast of the Companions on the morrow. Jian was not displeased. They would be allowed some small freedom of the marketplace, time to bathe and rest from the day’s exertions, and, best of all, respite from the watchful eye of the yendaeshi.
Jian had no wish to come any closer to the emperor, not this day, not even so close as to hear the translated whisper of his least imaginings.
And he had work to do.
* * *
After finding what he sought at the market, Jian returned to the barracks of the Yellow Daechen. It was cool and dim within. The walls were red lacquered wood and painted screens, the floors sweet sandalwood worn smooth and warm with the passing of a thousand thousand footsteps. The young men bathed in silence in deep copper tubs, attended as always by the ever-voiceless lashai. Jian slid beneath the surface of the water and remained for some time with his eyes closed, listening to the slow muted sounds of his companions and the water’s memories of rain and river, sea and storm, and rain again.
* * *
Later, Jian caught one of the lashai alone and gestured for her to attend.
“I will host a select few of my yearmates tonight,” he informed her. “We should eat well in the Imperial City. Dragonfish and cat-faced eel, so fresh it does not yet know it is dead. Yellow ling and stone crab, and a bucket of blue oysters if they are to be found. Rosewater rice and noodles, and such vegetables and fruits as are young and tender.”
The lashai nodded, eyes opaque. “Are you prepared to pay the price?”
“I have paid thrice over.”
“As you say.”
“As you say, Daechen.” He had paid dearly to become a prince of the Forbidden City, and these slaves would do well to start treating him like one.
“Yes, Daechen.” This time she bowed, and hurried away to do his bidding.
It was a beginning.
* * *
She brought to his quarters fragrant rice and rice noodles, crisp vegetables and soft fruit, and the firm, sweet flesh of fish from the Kaapua. Jian prepared the fish with his own hands as his mother had taught him, tucking flesh and rice and roe in tidy nests of seaweed and river-cabbage. As the lashai set out the feast, Jian laid out the gifts Xienpei had bidden him procure for his guests— daggers of bright empire steel with grips of ebon fashioned to look like hawks’ heads, and wyvern-hide scabbards embossed with the yellow Rose of the West. He had paid a terrible price to obtain these things.
Three words. Three names. Three drops of Daechen blood. Xienpei had told him that this was the only way out, and he would take it.
Or die trying.
He was arranging the daggers in the middle of the low table when the boys wandered in, Naruteo at their head. His face was flushed and his eyes narrowed to slits as he regarded the table set before him with open contempt.
“You dare,” he ground out between clenched teeth, “you dare summon us like slave-girls to your pleasure.”
Jian stood before the table and crossed his arms over his chest to still the pounding of his heart. “Hardly slave-girls,” he protested, keeping his voice steady as best he could. “I invited you as friends—”
“Friends!” Naruteo spat. “I know what you seek to do, bai dan. You think to buy our blood with shit and trinkets.”
Jian gripped his forearms to keep from throttling the other boy. “If you wish to leave, wang sao,” he replied with exaggerated politeness, “do not trip over my shadow on your way out.”
Naruteo bared his teeth and lowered his head as if to charge. A long moment hung in the air, breathless and still. Then he pivoted on his heel and strode from the room, shoving others out of his way, and a handful of others left with him. One or two shot regretful or angry looks over their shoulders, but most just shuffled along in Naruteo’s wake like fish trying to survive in rough waters.
“Jai tu wai,” Jian whispered. He could feel the coming storm in his bones.
None of the Daechen seemed surprised. The yendaeshi must have told them all about this ritual. Perri was the first to claim a knife. He used it to cut a shallow slice across the palm of his hand, and then stirred his blood into the waiting cup of mare’s milk.
“Sen-Baradam,” he said. He bowed to Jian and took his place at the table as if it were the most natural and inevitable thing in the world. One by one the other boys followed suit. Gai Khan and Bardu, Teppei and slight, dark Sunzi from the northern peaks, all mixed their blood into the milk and watched in dark silence as Jian lifted it to his lips and drank their allegiance.
“Dammati,” he bowed to them, “well met.” He took his place at the head of the table and reached for a piece of fish. The flesh was salty and sweet on his tongue, and tasted of blood and victory.
His mother’s pearls weighed heavy about his neck as he watched his Dammati eat. It was a small thing, but not without power.
It was a beginning.
FORTY - THREE
A light rain pattered against the glass roof of the Queen’s Atrium and streaked down the sides like tears. Sulema stood near the pool, leaning on her staff and watching the colorful fish dart this way and that.
The doors to the atrium were flung wide, and the sanctum was invaded by a horde of grim-faced soldiers armored and armed for the battlefield. Sulema paid no mind to them, nor to the healers who fluttered about like dark butterflies. She had eyes only for the pair of heavy litters in their midst. On the first lay her mother, pale as salted silk with a rose of blackened blood painted upon her breast. Behind her, seven men staggered beneath the weight of Khurra’an. Sulema sucked in a breath at the sight of them, and gagged as her mouth filled with the stink of cat and blood and death.
“To her rooms,” she told them, “quickly, now!” She knew the words were needless, and useless, but she had to do something. They bore her mother up the stairs, the long and winding stairs that Sulema had dashed up just that morning, so proud that she could make it to the top and down again with no sign of weakness or pain. So proud, and so useless. Her mouth twisted as she followed them to the top of the tower, listening to the men’s heavy breathing and the tap, tap, tap of her fox-head staff ringing against the dragonglass stairs, and the shroud of silence wound all about her mother’s still form.
They laid her mother upon her bed, and Khurra’an beside the hearth. His pale tongue lolled between the great, gold-banded tusks as his head flopped upon the stones, leaving a thick smear of gore. Sulema hurried to her mother’s side, dropping her staff upon the bed and scattering the healers.
Useless, she thought, every one of them. These healers were the reason they had come to Atualon. Them, and her own stupidity.
My fault. If she had not gone after the lionsnake they would have remained in the Zeera, her mother would not be dying. Mattu would not be… missing. Not dead. None of the charred bodies had been his, no matter what they said.
She did her fumbling best to make her mother comfortable. Hafsa Azeina favored the old blue pillow, she knew, though it was ragged at the corners and the embroidered butterflies were mostly worn away. She did not care for heavy blankets, as she was a hot and restless sleeper. Sulema drew a thin linen sheet up to her chest, just below the thick spidersilk bandages, stiff and stinking with blood. The bottom edge of the bandage fluttered and sighed, and Sulema let her own breath out in a long, shaky sigh. Her mother yet lived.
Hafsa Azeina was dying. Sulema was familiar with the sights and sounds and smells of death, and as beauty can only be found in truth, she would not lie to herself. Her mother was dying… but she was not dead yet. Sulema cradled her mother’s hand in both of hers, wondering that she had never seen her mother as fragile, never realized she was mortal.
“Mother,” she whispered. How many times had she called her Hafsa Azeina or Dreamshifter or even “that woman”? She mourned them now. “My mother. I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.”
“It is
I who should apologize, I who have failed—”
Sulema did not turn. “No, Saskia. No. I do not wish to hear you. Go away.”
“I promised the dreamshifter that I would look after you.”
“As you looked after her?” She bit into the words as if they were poisoned fruit. “You would have done better to die with her.”
“Sulema—”
“No. I said go. Go! All of you, go. Go away!” She was shouting, but it did not matter. None of it mattered now. “Can you save my mother? Can you?” She glared at the healers who stopped to stare at her, open-mouthed, at the soldiers who stood stone-faced and dumb as statues. Where were they, with their fine armor and sharp weapons, when her mother was attacked by the salt folk? “Just go, Yosh take you all, and leave us in peace.”
“Leave us.”
At the sound of her father’s voice, every soldier, every healer in the room bowed low and hurried away. Sulema turned and almost dropped her mother’s hand in surprise.
Ka Atu, her father, stood in the doorway to her mother’s chambers. He was clad all in robes of gold and thread-of-gold, and upon his face he wore a brilliant mask, a dragon’s face so cunningly wrought that for a moment it seemed Akari Sun Dragon himself stood before her bathed in his own magnificence. He crossed the room to stand at her side, flanked by a fist of Baidun Daiel. Their black armor seemed darker in his presence, as if it drank the light, but their golden masks reflected the glory of Ka Atu so that she could hardly bear to look at them.
He reached out his hands and cupped them around her own, and her mother’s. His touch was hot. She could feel the warmth pouring into her, like mead from a sun-warmed pitcher. His bright eyes were infinitely loving, infinitely sad as they looked at her.
“Sulema, my daughter, my heart,” he said, his voice echoing behind the golden mask, “I am so sorry.”
Sulema wept. She brought their hands—hers, her mother’s, her father’s—all of them to her chest and clung to them like a child who had suffered an unimaginable hurt. It felt as if the ground at her feet would open up and swallow her whole. It felt as if the sun would never shine again, and all the world was lost in darkness. Her heart was broken. She was broken, and would never be whole again.
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