by S. C. Emmett
“I could, if you would not mind a slow and clumsy companion.” He swept her a bow, hopefully fine enough to overcome his dishevelment. “I am no Khir, to ride like the goddess upon her endless hunt.”
That earned him a smile, and the Crown Princess loosened her veil, letting it fall across her face. “Excellent! My husband says we require a guard to go riding.”
Ah. “The Crown Prince is cautious, and prizes you greatly. A moment to bring my own mount to the bailey?”
“We shall wait, but not long. Yala, look! The General himself will accompany us.” If it irked Princess Mahara to have the enemy of her people dogging her steps, she did not show it.
“Hm? Ah. Zakkar Kai.” Lady Komor brushed irritably at her veil. “Seeking to be of service?” Khir accent rubbed through her Zhaon, sharpening each consonant.
“If you’ll have me.” A fortunate meeting, he could have quoted, but she did not seem in the mood for poetry now.
Flushed along her high cheekbones, her mouth pursed, she nodded and dismissed him from her attention, turning back to the horse. “Come along, cousin fourfoot. We shall find shade somewhere.”
No sooner had he turned away than he was hailed from the other end of the stable. “Kai! Eh, Kai!” It was Prince Takshin, his Shan trousers stuffed carelessly into boot-tops and a quite uncharacteristic gleam in his eyes. “Care for a gallop?”
“My services as Head General are engaged.” Kai did not miss the other man’s glance over his shoulder. His voice dropped. “Did Takyeo send you?”
“I sent myself,” was Takshin’s reply. “And we’d best be gone before my mother comes looking for me again. She wants blood this morning.”
Perhaps she thinks it will keep her young. The night-demons who sucked youth and vital fluids from the ancestorless and hence unprotected poor were plump-faced, too. Kai grinned. “I take it you want to ride the Tooth.”
“He remembers me.” Takshin’s smile, marred only by the scar upon his lip, was not bitter for once. “They’re saddling him now.”
SMALL PAIN
The Tooth did indeed remember Takshin. Cob-headed and high-blooded, the mottled grey was possessed of uncanny intelligence and stubbornness, and that endeared him to the Third Prince more than any fine lines or great pedigree could. Besides, Takyeo had taken the foal into his own stable-quarter when Takshin had indirectly expressed a kinship with the beast upon his second-to-last visit home, so riding him in attendance to the Crown Prince’s wife had a certain symmetry.
The stink, clamor, and dust of the High Road cleared before them, kaburei and peasant, artisan and scholar scattering before the sound of hooves and the sight of the two large greys accompanying slighter, veiled female riders. Those mounted on less-thoroughbred mounts moved aside as well, and it only took the sight of Zakkar Kai at the North Gate for them to be waved through the smaller throat of the postern. Kai took the lead, choosing the Qulon Road where the pleasure-woods spread beyond a few large nobles’ clan-farms. At least that had not changed while he was enduring a deranged queen, Takshin thought, and his smile was too grim for the pleasure riding was supposed to bring a prince.
The Khir women held their mounts to a canter for a short while, perhaps thinking the large Guard-bred greys would tire attempting a gallop. When it was time to cool, they pushed their veils aside, and liquid scarves of Khir flowed back and forth. Eventually, a wide sun-dappled meadow opened upon the left, and the Khir women amused themselves with horse-games before leading the mares to a clear stream almost buried in sedge.
Takshin found himself next to Lady Yala, and decided it would be easy to fret her again. “Have you forgiven me yet, spyling?”
“For what?” Her grey gaze, much lighter than a Guard mount’s coat, did not move from her feet, placed carefully upon two mostly dry hummocks. Her mare shouldered forward a step, two, and bent gracefully to drink. The Tooth, also slaking his thirst, blew bubbles in the stream and lifted his dripping mouth.
“For catching you out at eavesdropping.”
Her mouth turned down for a brief moment as she smoothed her mare’s neck with gloved fingers. Her profile was severe, a carver’s attempt to turn stone into flesh. “Since I was not, Third Prince, there is nothing to forgive.”
“Well, since I heard no gossip about our meeting, I am forced to conclude you may keep a secret as well.” Throw a handful of rai, see what rose to the surface. Just like feeding bronzefish in a garden pond.
She still did not look at him. Why wear so much heavy cloth to go riding? “Or I could simply be indisposed to gossip itself.”
“You are a woman.” They talked, and talked; it was what they did. Even the Mad Queen had been fond of monologues, delivered in her sweet, clear, utterly reasonless voice.
The Khir woman did not rise to the lure. “So I am told.” A soft rustling spring breeze combed the banks, whispering in its own tongue.
Oh, she was amusing. “Or you could have decided the tale was unworthy to tell, being about the ugliest prince of Zhaon.”
“Do you hold that distinction, then?” Mild interest, no more. She did not seem offended, or even flustered. Perhaps only a little bored.
That stung him more than open disdain or fear could. “Do you want to know how?”
“How what, Third Prince?” Her glance only rose to his chest before being returned, with well-bred reticence, to her feet.
“The scars.”
That brought her chin up, and she regarded him for a long moment. Would she affect pity, or be disgusted? Either were not to be borne.
“If it pleases you to speak upon it.” She left her feet precisely where they were, but her weight shifted a fraction. Strands of blue-black hair clung to her damp forehead, one curving on her cheek. It was too warm for a veil, and for those heavy riding trousers. Even wrapped in several layers, she was slight, with sharp shoulders. “Some warriors speak of their wounds, others do not.”
“It was not a battle.” He would not tell her the story of the one upon his left cheek, vanishing under his hair. But his lip, perhaps. That was enough of a story. “I was seven winters high. The Mad Queen of Shan ordered me thrown into a dry well, for calling her Mother.” As he had been commanded to do by Her Serene Majesty the preceding day, of course. The rules changed at whim, a terrifying inconsistency he had found oddly familiar even as a child. “That night her son climbed down too, while I lay bleeding.”
“Kiron?” Her lips shaped the name strangely. “That is his name, correct? The Suon prince of Shan?”
“Yes. He tied me to his back and carried me forth.” What was I to do? was all Kiron would say of the matter. I missed my playmate. “I lay near death for three days.”
Her chin dipped, an approximation of a nod. “And those are… the marks?”
“Some of them.” He was lucky his ribs had not been staved in, merely battered. The scar upon his jaw was another tale, the gift of a bandit with a knife while he and Kiron escaped the castle to ride in the woods.
That nameless bandit bore the distinction of being Takshin’s first kill, and he had told no one, not even Kiron. Of course, the High Prince of Shan could guess.
Now Kiron was king, and Takshin was home. Or at least, the Third Prince of Zhaon was where he chose to be. Home was merely a word, holding no meaning in Zhaon or in the Shan dialects.
With her veil tucked aside, Lady Komor looked like a nun or exorcist, a fantastical headdress robbing an onlooker of the sight of a woman’s hair, that crowning glory. “You have ridden to the Great Fields.”
“What?” Takshin’s smile was less sour now, and unfamiliar. The phrase sounded important, from the stress she laid upon the last two words.
She glanced at the mare again, who flicked a lazy ear, finishing her drink. “Among the Khir, when a warrior has been sent away from death we say he has returned from the Great Fields, where all must ride one day.”
“Ah.” It had a certain ring to it. “Great Fields.” He tested the words, found them strangely
pleasing.
Lady Komor nodded, and the corners of her lips curved slightly upward. Did she mean to smile? “When he is recovered, his ear is pierced as a sign—and so the Fields do not call so loudly.”
“Ear pierced? Eardrum, or…?” He thought again as she shook her head. What a strange custom. “Like a noblewoman? A court lady, or like a courtesan?”
“No, with a hoop.” Her gloved left hand rose slightly as if to sketch a shape in the air, but dropped back to her side. With her head covered and veiled, you could not see her ears. “None who have not lain as you did, near the Fields, may wear it.”
An exclusionary mark. Fitting. “Ah. I see.”
Lady Komor hesitated. Takshin braced himself. Now would come the mockery.
Instead, she regarded him calmly, if a trifle earnestly. Those strange clear eyes held no hint of pity or mockery, or even amusement. “You have ridden to the Great Fields, and come back. If you like, I shall pierce your ear. It is a Khir custom, and may not be welcome to you, but—”
“No.” The word was unnaturally loud. “It would please me, I think.” The instant he said it, he knew regret. Now she would mock him.
Her expression did not change. “There is some small pain.”
“I am accustomed to pain, Lady Komor.” Did she think him a rai-paper prince, a bluffing, empty tiger?
“None of us may live without it.” Now she looked away, across the streamlet, the clean line of her throat showing between the collar-edges of her riding tunic. She even wore cotton and linen underneath, two pale fabrics showing neatly seamed edges.
“So the sages say.” He searched her profile for any hint of disgust, no matter how well camouflaged. None was evident, unless she was a face-dancer. His boots squelched, his right heel sinking into mud. “Do you offer this service to all, then?”
“Of course not.” Now she was irritated, and moved away, stepping with care to keep her boots dry. It was akin to a warrior’s precision, and that was interesting as well. She was a dancer, this Khir girl, with both tongue and footwork. “You would be the first, and I almost regret offering.”
Oh. Of course, he had treated her badly. He treated everyone badly; she was no different. “I do not need pity.”
“Then I shall give none,” she replied, each consonant an acerbic spike, and led her horse away.
The Tooth made another burbling noise in the streamlet, as if laughing. Takshin cursed at him, in an undertone, but the beast was unmoved.
LETTERS
The Zhaon celebrated when the rai in wet fields reached knee-height, and such an occasion meant the entire palace complex throbbed with febrile activity. A court banquet was planned, which meant choosing fabric and sewing as well as decorous small steps along the paths to visit the Artisans’ Home. Not only that, but Yala must also brave a market or two outside the walls with only the chaperonage of Anh and a single one of Crown Prince Takyeo’s household guards, a thing unheard of in Khir. And to get there, she must climb into a palanquin instead of riding.
The din, the stink, and the bustle was overwhelming, but at least she could open the slatted palanquin windows when the bearers halted at the edge of the nobles’ district to mop their brows and change position. Bumping and swaying past the gates to the large clan-houses, each one with their device worked into lintel and wall, Yala sought to make connections with the faces she had seen so far.
Mahara, now in semiseclusion instead of formal seclusion, had yet to accumulate a faction around herself as the two queens and the First Concubine possessed. Had more noble daughters of Khir come with their princess, they could have begun the work already, but it was no use to bemoan fate. Yala would begin sorting through Zhaon’s noble daughters for her princess after the festival, when the seclusion was fully lifted. It was always a ticklish task, and here among the Zhaon, a misstep had consequences it would not at home.
Home. The word had lost much of its meaning. She was trapped here; she might as well pretend she could find somewhat to like about it.
Near the walls of the palace complex, the houses became even larger, greening boughs touching the tops of enclosures, the lintels bearing the names with the characters Ga-Ra-n’ before them—the abodes of adult princes, for when they did not choose to sleep within the Emperor’s home. The Second Prince had a fine one with crimson-rubbed wood lintels, the Fourth Prince’s gate was a restrained curve and looked more like a scholar’s. There was also one overgrown and obviously in disrepair, its lintels scratched clear.
She thought it likely that house had been intended for Third Prince Takshin.
Had she really offered him a kyeogra? A momentary impulse, a kindness offered to one whose warrior scars and ill-ease were evident, and it had met with the disdain she expected.
I was seven winters high. He had said it flatly, as if daring her to pity him, and the reminder of Bai was so strong it had all but clouded her eyes with hot salt water. I lay near death for three days.
Not all his scars could be from that cruelty. A dry well—how terrifying, to be thrust into the throat of earth like that. But there was the mark of a blade along his jawline, and Anh’s stories of the Third Prince were of his ill-luck in being sent far from civilization into the barbaric pierced dish of Shan, and the perpetual small battles with nomads and bandits on that land’s far edge.
The palanquin swayed, and at least she had time to think while it passed estates clinging to the palace’s walls like small eggfowl huddling against a larger feathered rump. Before the shallow rise to the Small Gate, she had to close the windows again and sit in the simmering of the small ovenlike box, breathing ceduan, the light enha38 scent she had commissioned from the royal perfumier, and her own sweat. At least Anh could walk in the free air and chatter to the guard—a slim, tall youth with a downy chin and a serious gaze, mostly silent lest his speaking betray what Anh called a provincial accent.
It was likely the kaburei girl found him amusing, or attractive.
Between the Great Market and the Left Market was the theater quarter, and Yala had in mind to inquire if court ladies ever attended performances. There were players and jugglers at the Emperor’s meals, she had heard, and the once-weekly Open Court banquet, but Mahara as a new bride did not attend those until a full moon after seclusion was lifted.
When she did, Yala would no doubt be required to go along for at least a few. She could not even feel pleased at the notion, trapped in this box as she was. It was lucky for a new bride to attend the Knee-High Festival, but against decorum for her to appear so soon at her father-in-law’s table otherwise.
A dance of rules, hemming both princess and lady-in-waiting. At least they knew their roles, and had not stumbled yet.
Yala closed her eyes, deepened her breathing. A thread-thin slice upon her left arm stung under salt-sweat, the yue punishing her for inattention. Or perhaps she had flinched last night, Heaven striking gongs while demons or criminals were executed in purgatorial swamps and the yue warning her to keep her honor unstained so she did not fear the weighing of her life or liver in beaten-silver celestial scales.
Finally, she let herself wonder about the strangest thing of all. A letter had appeared that morning, borne from the front door by careful hands. It was not the day missives from Khir normally arrived; the letter, upon thick paper, bore a seal she had not seen before. The brushstrokes of her name and title were well-placed and gracefully executed.
She had left it, unopened, upon her writing-desk in a small woven basket. Anh, no doubt bursting with questions, had glanced at it but said nothing, and Yala was certain the fact that she did not break the seal immediately would be noted if the kaburei gossiped.
What, after all, could Zakkar Kai have to say to her?
“I wish you could come along,” Mahara whispered, forlornly, picking at the embroidery at her cuff before remembering herself and putting her hands decorously away. Crown Prince Takyeo waved away his close-servant, a sleepy-eyed Zhaon youth with quick, narrow fingers and a
scanty topknot. The prince was not quite irritated, but the set of his mouth, usually serene, was much tighter than usual.
“You will have your husband with you,” Yala whispered back, guiltily glad she was not required to attend this event. “All will be well.”
“I must walk at his side, instead of behind.” Thin golden discs hanging from the princess’s single hairpin shivered as she did, soft music. “Zhaon women are like men.”
“Apparently not, since they bear sons.” Yala took one more last, critical look at Mahara’s sunset-colored dress, the heavy embroidery at cuffs and collar worked in subtle catlike characters for luck and hunting, the sash very broad and tiny edges of whisper-thin orange linen under-wrapping showing just enough to draw attention to the richness of the fabric and the traditional Zhaon lines. Lady Kue’s seamstress-maids were wonderfully adept, and the dame had petitioned for them to be given a double pot of sohju to celebrate their skill in dressing the Crown Princess for tonight’s ceremonies. The house weavers would be content with their single pot, and all within the Crown Prince’s palace would no doubt sleep well tonight.
The princess giggled, hiding her mouth behind a sleeve that brushed perilously near the ground when her arms were down. Yala fussed over her other sleeve, the fan and three thin, scented cloths tucked into well-sewn pockets, a bahto39 thrust through the many-folded sash and dangling a tiny greenstone snow-pard. A similarly tiny lai-blossom bag holding other small, exquisitely crafted essentials was tucked into her other sleeve, its crimson string about her wrist.
There was a soft commotion in the hallway. A messenger had arrived, and the Crown Prince leaned down briefly as his steward—round oily Keh Tanh, whose heavy iron manumit ring lay upon his sober brown chest, proudly dangling from a leather thong—muttered in his ear.
For a moment, Prince Takyeo’s face turned to granite, and the likeness to his father was marked. Yala had only seen the Emperor once during the welcoming ceremony, but the portraits and statues all shared the same remote, unyielding expression, the small beard, the long nose and thoughtful eyes.