The servants there hung a broad, elaborately embroidered scroll on a golden stand but did not untie the ribbon that held it shut. The governor and Hand Usher stepped to the edge of the dais while the musicians played one final, triumphant note.
“Best and brightest of this, the youngest province of our grand Empire,” Voice Golden-Finch said. “Today we celebrate the successes of a few. We also remind the rest that the Empire is generous with second chances.”
He went on to reassure us that those whose names were not written on the scroll would be welcome to sit for the next examinations in Nayen in three years’ time. Then, in the same droning, laborious tone, he launched into the encouraging tale of a man who failed the examinations three times in a row before finally passing and becoming a scholar of the Eastern Academy Quarter, the greatest body of learning in the Empire.
His words buzzed in my ears, all but meaningless. My fingernails dug into the palms of my hands. I had no leverage over Clear-River. Nothing to use against him if he threatened to expose me.
“I saved your life,” I said, hoping to touch some shred of moral feeling.
“You did,” Clear-River said, his smile growing wider. “I could have exposed you already, but I did not, because you saved my life. I offer you the same. They will execute you when they learn your secret, and they will learn it the moment they mark you with the tetragram and the Emperor peers into the shadowed corners of your mind. If you are offered the apprenticeship, refuse, and I won’t tell them anything.”
The governor swept his arm toward the scroll. “With that, let us unveil the results.”
The scroll unfurled. All but the first fifteen names were written in black ink. Fourteen were written in red. One name was written in gold.
Clear-River’s was the highest of the red names, just below mine.
“They will know,” Clear-River whispered. “And they will kill you.”
The governor read the first of the red names. Yellow-Stone--his hangover apparently forgotten--mounted the dais to receive the silken stole and silver medallion that were the symbols of his commission. I looked over my shoulder and saw Koro Ha beaming at me with pride. If I did what Clear-River wanted, how could I explain my refusal to my tutor, or to my father, or to anyone?
Thirteen years ago, the Empire had searched our house for the notorious bandit Harrow Fox, but perhaps thirteen years had been long enough for that connection to fade beneath notice. But a refusal of apprenticeship with Hand Usher would draw scrutiny toward my family. Even if we faced no punishment, who in the Empire would trade with my father, once it became widely known that he was married to the sister of a rebel leader?
“You are running out of time, Alder,” Clear-River said. The governor had called the seventh name. “Step aside.”
In the darkness of the forest my grandmother had given me a taste of magic, but she had abandoned me. Now the Empire itself had offered to teach me. I wanted that knowledge, more than prestige or power. More than the restoration of my family. Enough to risk the threats of this ambitious, conniving peasant.
“No,” I said.
The governor called the twelfth name. Clear-River took a deep breath and shrugged. “Well then, you prove yourself undeserving. What was the lesson of the pollical cat, if not that we should accept our place and not reach beyond the limit of our grasp? We will see you at the execution grounds before long, I suspect.”
“Witchcraft has not been practiced openly in Nayen since before we were born,” I said. “Does your village harbor a witch? Someone to appease the gods? Oh, you are too well educated to condone such things, but what of your parents? Turning me in will make you suspect as well.”
“Hah!” A tutor seated nearby glared at Clear-River, who bowed his head in apology, then glowered at me. “An empty threat, based on idle speculation. Besides, I need say nothing. The moment they mark your hand, the Emperor will know.”
“That is nothing more than an empty rumor,” I said, projecting all the confidence I could muster. “What would a farmer’s son know about what transpires between the Emperor and his Hands?”
“Even if the rumors are false, your right hand is marked, isn’t it?” Clear-River leaned close and whispered. “They cut you when they gave you witchcraft, didn’t they? Hand Usher has fought witches. He will recognize those scars. You have to refuse, Alder, otherwise you’ll die.”
But there was a flaw in his reasoning. I remembered my grandmother’s tale of my grandfather, of his death by his own conjured flame. If every witch in Nayen would sooner die than be captured, and succeeded in self-destruction when cornered, then the exact pattern of scars that marked a witch would still be secret from the Empire, just as Nayeni magic was secret.
There was a very real chance, however slight, that Hand Usher wouldn’t recognize my scars. That no Hand of the Emperor even could.
“Perhaps,” I said, and matched Cear-River’s stare. “Nevertheless.”
His eyes widened at the coldness of my voice. I pressed on, leaning toward him. “It was a hanging lantern. Nothing more.”
The governor called Clear-River’s name. He blinked as though awoken from a dream, then walked hurriedly to the dais. Did a whispered accusation flit between him and Hand Usher, as he bowed to receive his stole?
It would be his word against mine. My pedigree was better. I had placed higher. But my scars and my parentage would evidence his accusation. Clear-River returned to his seat, sat stiffly and stared straight ahead.
“Finally, we are pleased to welcome the first Hand of the Emperor to rise from Nayen,” the governor said. “Wen Alder, son of Wen Rosewood, descendent of the great general Wen Broad-Oak, who was himself Hand of the Emperor.”
Every eye in the courtyard sought me out. I walked with all the confidence I could muster. At the top of the dais I bowed thrice: first to the governor, then to Hand Usher, and finally to the crowd below. Koro Ha’s face shone like the sun. Clear-River’s eyes were downcast.
“By your exemplary performance you have risen above your fellows,” the governor said. Light still rippled from his forehead, and I felt the weight of the sorcery that bound his mind to the Emperor’s and gave him the power to speak with all the force of Empire. “Hand Usher has, in his generosity, selected you to be his apprentice. From him you will learn the Canon of Sorcery, and with his guidance you will begin to lend your substantial talents to the administration and defense of the Empire.”
Hand Usher stepped forward. He held a seal cast from gold and decorated with coiled lion-serpents.
“This seal will mark you with power and privilege,” Hand Usher said. He affected ostentatiousness, letting his voice show none of the coy, playful man who had told the tale of the pollical cat. Yet the corner of his mouth quirked upward as he went on. “You will bear the Never-Changing Name of the Emperor, the key to the canon of sorcery. Offer your palm to receive this honor.”
The fingers of my right hand curled shut. I imagined Clear-River watching from below, gloating, expecting my downfall the moment I showed Hand Usher my scars. At the same time, a new worry struck me--the marks my grandmother had carved had changed the feel of magic, constraining it. What might happen if those marks were written over with the imperial tetragram? I knew the danger of blindly meddling with magic. I looked Hand Usher in the eye, made my face as open and honest as I could, and offered my left palm.
Hand Usher’s smile faded.
“What are you doing?” he said under his breath. “It must be your right hand.”
“I can write with my left,” I said.
His lips parted in confusion. He looked to the governor. I pressed on.
“Your Excellences, why are Hands of the Emperor marked on the right palm if not because it is the hand with which they write? They compose edicts and administer justice with the brush, just as they defend the Empire with sorcery. It is the palm that holds the brush which should be marked, to lend the Hand’s actions the authority of the Emperor’s name.”
<
br /> I hoped that Hand Usher might see resonance between my unconventional thinking and his own.
“And you write with your left?” he said.
“I do,” I said.
Hand Usher faced the proctors, who knelt in neat rows on the edges of the stage. My stomach began to churn.
“Which of you administered the essay portion of Master Wen’s examination?” he said. Three proctors raised their hands. Hand Usher waved toward the youngest of the three. “You, tell me. With which hand did Master Wen hold his brush?”
The young proctor studied me carefully. “Your Excellence, I do not recall any of the candidates using their left hands.”
“It would have stood out if one had, yes?” Hand Usher said. “Not something you would have overlooked?”
“Quite unusual, Your Excellence.”
“Thank you.”
The young proctor bowed. Hand Usher leaned toward me, his eyes bright and inquisitive. I kept my face impassive, still offering my left hand. Murmurs rose from the otherwise placid crowd.
“You,” Hand Usher pointed at the next proctor, an old scholar with a wispy beard and balding head. “Did Master Wen use his right or his left hand?”
The proctor cleared his throat. “I would not tolerate any deviation from ritual and code such as a young man composing with his left hand, for, as the great moral philosopher Hu Finch-in-Rushes wrote--”
“Thank you, proctor,” said Hand Usher.
The old proctor cleared his throat indignantly, then settled back on his haunches. Hand Usher took another step forward. I could smell his breath--tea and spices and meat. My mind was racing, yet empty, like the center of a storm.
“You!” Hand Usher’s voice was rising. He pointed to the third proctor. “Same question.”
The third proctor looked at me severely. “He used his right.”
“Thank you!” Hand Usher bowed quickly to the proctors, then whirled back to face me. “Will you challenge the testimony of these three, who watched your examination like a hawk watches a field mouse?’
Silence held while the crowd swallowed their murmurs to await my answer.
“No, Your Excellence,” I said. “I did not say that I wrote my examination with my left hand, only that I can and do use it, and that it is better suited to the Emperor’s service.”
“The story grows! You can write with both hands, then? A rare talent.”
“Not a talent, but a skill,” I said with a bow. “One taught to me by my tutor, through long hours of practice.”
“Why would your tutor waste time on such a novelty?”
“So that I might serve the Emperor, even if I should lose one of my hands, as I so nearly did as a child.”
Hand Usher’s expression shifted, ever so slightly, from incredulous anger to piqued curiosity. “Explain.”
“When I was a boy, a poorly made plate shattered in my right hand,” I said. “Unwilling to let me lie fallow while it healed, my generous and long-suffering tutor devoted himself to teaching me to use my left. The injury made him realize that in this chaotic world there would be value in the ability to continue one’s work even after losing so dear an appendage as a writing hand. After my injury healed he made me write every exercise twice over. Once with my right hand, and once with my left, until even my own father could not discern which had written.”
New murmurs rose from the crowd. I wondered what Koro Ha was thinking--likely he cursed me for a braggart and a fool.
“It is my duty to give the Emperor the best I have to offer,” I said. “Given the choice between my hale, unmarred left hand or my disfigured right, I offer my left.”
“What a ridiculous story,” Voice Golden-Finch said. He flicked his sleeves in irritation. “The right hand is the natural tool for writing, the left the tool for pillowing the elbow of the writing arm. Every treatise on calligraphy agrees.”
“It may be strange,” Hand Usher said. “But it demonstrates a rare quality.”
“What quality?” demanded the governor. “It demonstrates only deviance!”
“When the family dines together, is it not proper that the son offer the best morsels to his father? Is it not proper to pour out the first pot of tea--bitter as it often is--rather than serving it to guests? Master Wen shows that kind of respect.” The ghost of a smile returned to Hand Usher’s face. “If this story is true.”
“It is, Your Excellence,” I said. “My tutor can corroborate.”
“So can my eyes.” Hand Usher clamped his hand around my right wrist and pulled me off balance. I bit back a yelp. He threw back my sleeve and turned my hand upright. His eyes searched my palm. I was certain that he would declare me a traitor, a witch in hiding. Did I have the fortitude to conjure flame, to destroy myself upon the dais rather than let the Empire steal the secrets my grandfather had died to defend? Hand Usher waved to one of the servants.
“Bring paper, brush, and ink,” he said, “and Master Wen’s compositions.”
He released me. Servants scurried into the reception hall and returned with a writing table. Hand Usher bade me kneel. One of the proctors produced a lacquered case that had been sealed with wax and stamped with my name.
“The first document in this file is your pedigree,” Hand Usher said, brushing his fingers along the top of the case. “You will reproduce it with your left hand. If what you say is true, then I should see no difference between the calligraphy you wrote six days ago and what you write today.”
The servants prepared the table. Ink sticks and a grinding stone, brushes, a pitcher of water--tools I had used all my life. I fought a quiver in my hand as I dripped water on the stone and began grinding ink. My fingers slipped on the brush, as though holding one were not the most familiar thing in the world.
Hand Usher folded his hands into his sleeves, and I began to write. I focused on the page, on each line of each logogram, and my brushwork regained familiar, practiced ease, forming words I had written countless times. The hair of my brush slid along the page, paused, then straightened as I lifted it from the final article.
Hand Usher peered over my shoulder. His breath quickened as he read. He gestured to the servant who carried the sealed case that held my compositions. Wax cracked, hinges swung open, paper rustled, and I heard a single, sharp exhalation.
“My apologies, Master Wen,” he said. “I should never have doubted one who has demonstrated excellence by every measure.” He tossed the first pedigree I had written on the ground, then folded the one I had just composed and placed it within the case. “You are correct to offer your left hand. It is better than your right.”
He knelt on the other side of the writing desk and smiled, but with a furrowed brow, and I recalled the flawed article in my first pedigree. He bowed to me, never taking his eyes from mine.
“You will be a worthy, if curious, apprentice,” he said, retrieving the seal of the Emperor’s name. He took my left hand and turned it palm-up. “Wen Alder, I seal you, and name you Hand of the Emperor.”
Chapter Seven
Recognition
The next day I made ready to return home to thank my parents, celebrate my success, bid them farewell, and collect my belongings before returning to live and study with Hand Usher on the governor’s estate. Before I left, Hand Usher offered me two warnings.
“Magic leaves a wake through the pattern of the world, like a ship sailing a placid sea,” he said. “You will begin to feel such wakes bubbling beneath the surface of your awareness. Do not reach for them. You are not yet ready. If you tried to wield magic, you would be as dangerous to yourself and others as a toddler with a broadsword.”
I had felt these wakes since I was eight years old, but the tetragram had brought something new. A font of power. It was less a bubble than a geyser, and I began to feel the rush and pulse of it the moment the golden seal struck my flesh.
“Second, I must warn you that, though you have succeeded at the imperial examinations, failure is not beyond you. You have been
given power because we believe you are worthy of it. But if you prove yourself unworthy, it will be taken from you. The cost of failure will be your left hand and exile to a far-flung corner of the Empire. You are fortunate that you can write with both hands.”
A chill ran through me at the incongruity between his words and his mild expression. I bowed, thanked him for the warning, and mounted the palanquin that would take me home, for the last time for many years to come.
* * *
Imperial couriers traveled throughout the Empire, bearing word of the results of the first examinations to be held in Nayen. Only days after Koro Ha and I returned home, my father arrived in our wake. His face beamed with pride as he clasped my shoulders and shouted orders at our stewards and servants to begin preparations for a banquet.
“I shouldn’t have doubted you for a moment, Alder,” he said. “As soon as I heard, I sold off what I could of my cargo--at a bare fraction of the price I’d have commanded in Northern Capital, I’ll have you know--and sailed at speed for home.” He marveled at the tetragram written on my left palm in glittering silver. “To think, my son…Hand of the Emperor.”
I wondered whether my father would have rushed home if I had not so vastly exceeded his expectations. He released me, then whirled toward Koro Ha and embraced him, crowing that the ten years he’d spent paying my tutor’s salary had all been worth it.
My mother cried quiet, happy tears. She praised my successes, but her eyes darted away from my tetragram. She had heard the same rumors that Clear-River had used to threaten me and knew as well about my grandmother’s lessons. I wanted to reassure her--I felt no eyes peering through my own, nor any prying presence in my thoughts, only the flow of a new fountain of power--but she had never openly acknowledged my Nayeni heritage, let alone the magic her mother wielded. There were things we both wanted to say, but could not, and after she congratulated me an awkward silence festered between us.
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