The Throne of the Five Winds

by S. C. Emmett

  Yala shook her head, her hair whispering against the pillow. “Why not simply leave me be?”

  “I am burdened with your life, little lure.” It was a weight he had taken willingly, though just when he could not say. Perhaps when she had given him the gift of a gaze unmarred by pity, or perhaps the first instant he saw her amid stone columns on an early spring morn, with his mother’s poison still burning in his ears. “You may choose which country to spend it within, be it Ch’han to Anwei or Far Nihon, I will not complain. But you will not waste it in grieving. That I will not allow.”

  “Allow.” Those trickling tears, each one a sharp glitter. Her voice was stronger now, no longer a cricket’s dry threadiness. “You cannot stop me, Third Prince Takshin.”

  Could he not? She was determined, this lady-in-waiting, but he was willing to be ruthless. “Is that the proper way to thank the man who returned your yue? Or the man who took a whip-mark in your stead?”

  The trapped bird in her gaze mantled, and a sharp beak flashed. “You are a merchant, to account a debt thus.”

  The insult cheered him tremendously. Anger, no matter how reined, was always better than numb passivity. “Call me what you like, it does not change the debt itself. Now rest, little lure. I will be watching.”

  She turned away, presenting her back to him, and the damp cloth fell from her forehead. Silently, she sobbed, curled around a square unta59-stuffed pillow, and Takshin sat straight and motionless, his hands aching to touch, to soothe. In the end, though, it was probably best that he did not.

  He was no use at comfort. On the table next to the bed, the greenmetal blade in its cunningly sewn sheath, stripped efficiently as he laid her upon the bed after her pyre-walk, witnessed both tears and immobility. Takshin thought it very likely the blade would not comfort her, either.

  But when she was ready, she would find the Third Prince of Zhaon waiting.

  SO MUCH CONSIDERATION

  Tap. Tap. Sunlight and shade in alternating stripes lay across the long Kaeje verandah. Tap. Tap. A silvershod cane marked off time, step by step.

  “You should not.” Kihon Jiao did not look up. He paced at the Crown Prince’s side, shortening his usual brisk stride without appearing to. “You will lame yourself, do you continue thus. The bone was not broken, but is badly bruised and may twist.”

  “He is my father.” Takyeo kept his gaze upon the ground as well, and cursed the deep drilling pain each movement of his crushed leg sent up to detonate in his head. “And, if you are correct…”

  The physician did not quite bristle, but he did take some manner of umbrage despite his lowly rank. “Do you think I would lie to you, Crown Prince?”

  “No, Honorable Kihon.” Takyeo longed to grit his teeth, but he needed his mouth for speaking. “I merely mean to account for the possibility that he may prove more stubborn than this malady. Whatever it is.”

  The physician puffed out his cheeks but did not quite sigh. They were fast approaching a door into the Kaeje, and past that point he clearly did not think it wise to accompany the Crown Prince. “He is certainly stubborn. In that, you are quite alike.”

  “Thank you, Honorable Kihon Jiao.” Takyeo’s forehead gleamed with sweat, but he did not slow. He still wore mourning, a robe of pale death that flapped when his bulky injured leg moved.

  “I shall visit your palace this afternoon, as usual.” Was that uncertainty in the physician’s tone? The man halted, but only for a breath, for Takyeo did not.

  “Good.” The Crown Prince did not even appear to notice his companion’s hesitation. “Takshin is quite eager for Lady Komor to regain her strength.”

  “I have a crowd of royal clients,” Kihon Jiao muttered, but not ill-naturedly. He walked about hatless, and the sun brought out the reddish undertones in his topknot handsomely. “Lady Komor is the least of my worries.”

  “She is the least of many worries for everyone, I suspect.” Crown Prince Takyeo said no more, but lengthened his painful stride, and the physician let himself be outpaced.

  It never did to press a prince’s uncertain temper.

  The Emperor’s bedchamber, full of mirrorlight and the healing fumes of kuluri incense, pulsed with activity. The shell of Garan Tamuron, propped upon stiff, round pillows, waved away his ministers at Takyeo’s limping approach. “You should be abed,” he said, without preamble.

  He was thin-cheeked now, and though the physician’s attentions abated his discomfort somewhat, the nameless malady was ransacking the walled city of the imperial body. The suppurating sores widened, and his hair had become thin. Seeing the Emperor after a short absence, many a minister dropped his gaze, unable to look upon the ruin.

  Takyeo essayed a reasonable approximation of a bow. “They will not carry my bed to yours, Father. Therefore, I must walk.”

  The Emperor’s cheekbones stood out, and fingers of virulent purplish rash crept up his neck. His left hand lay curled as an archer’s claw after a heavy battle, and his thinning hair was loose upon his shoulders. “At least tell me you availed yourself of a palanquin.”

  “I am not a woman.” A thin ghost of a smile touched Takyeo’s lips, submerged into his usual somberness. “In any case, should I lie?”

  “Sit, sit.” The Emperor indicated a gilt-figured chair by the bedside. “Draw away, all of you. Leave me some space, and open the verandah door. I wish for air.”

  Takyeo could not stifle a small groan as he sank down, stretching out his left leg. The chamber did not quite empty—a knot of dark-robed eunuchs lingered inside the heavy sliding door, and most of the courtiers flowed outside to the scant shade of the verandah, overlooking the Kaeje’s greatest jewel-garden.

  “Well.” Tamuron eyed his pale-robed son. “You are still mourning.”

  “My wife is dead, Father.” Under his robe, a small bag of crimson silk held a lock of blue-black hair tied with red silken thread by a grieving Khir lady-in-waiting. His close-servant did not remark upon it, but pinned it even inside his lord’s sleeping-robe. Chill and somewhat remote, the Crown Prince continued. “Choking upon her own blood, a goodly portion of her bones crushed.”

  “Kai is investigating.” Tamuron coughed, a deep racking noise, and grimaced, swallowing whatever had dredged from his lungs. “There are larger problems.”

  Takyeo’s eyelids lowered a fraction. That was all. It was a very hot morning, thunder in the distance but no rain touching thirsty earth.

  The murmuring eunuchs watched; ministers and courtiers peered through the verandah’s other sliding doors as well. The weight of eyes, familiar after so many years, pressed hard upon them both.

  “We will be receiving an envoy,” Tamuron said, finally. “No doubt you have heard.”

  The Crown Prince nodded. “Zan Fein gave me to understand there was another, visiting our neighbors to the north.” His expression, set and grim, did not alter. “Perhaps Shan has had to endure a pale barbarian guest, too, while they prepare for Sabwone’s advent.”

  “Shan is Takshin’s matter, not ours. He will do his duty there, if you insist.” Tamuron lifted his knotted left hand, let it drop. “You will receive the Tabrak in the Great Hall. No doubt he will ask for earth and salt to carry back to his lord, and a fat tribute, too. You must awe him, Takyeo, but not too much, and—”

  “Perhaps it will be best to let the barbarian cool his heels, like any other petitioner.” Takyeo gazed at the table nearest the bedside, scattered with the effluvia of the medical trade. Mortar-cradles, pestles both circular and pillar, two scales, jars of herbs, a block of heavy white clay from a river where a goddess was said to have cried during the morning of the world, imparting healing onto sodden ground along with her grief.

  Garan Tamuron was silent for a long moment. “I am dying,” he said, finally. “You will be Emperor, my son.”

  Takyeo nodded, a trifle distractedly, a man listening to an inner song instead of a merchant’s sell-chant. “Are you so certain?”

  “I have ordered the line of
succession, and the ministers—”

  “They will be loyal, do you think?” Takyeo’s expression turned thoughtful, deceptively mild. He studied the phoenix embroidered upon the hanging at the bed’s head, its wings spread and its own gaze disturbingly direct. “Really?”

  “Kai is loyal.” Tamuron gazed upon his eldest son, his wasted face flushed and pale in turn. “You must send Takshin to Shan.”

  “Do you think he will go?” Another mild inquiry, only half interested. Takyeo’s long fingers played with the silver cane-head, plucking notes from invisible strings.

  “Do you hear me?” The Emperor of Zhaon, peerless under Heaven, mastered himself. His right hand patted at his chest, scratching lightly at his bed-robe and the bandages underneath. “I am dying, Ah-Yeo my first son, and you will have the throne. You must keep it.”

  “You haven’t called me that in years.” Takyeo’s hand firmed, gripping the cane’s glittering head. “I hear the nobles of Zhaon will not follow a cripple.”

  His father made an irritated noise, also familiar. There was a time it would have struck dread into an eldest prince’s very core. “Then you must rest, and recover, and ride as soon as you are able.”

  “Father.” Takyeo’s gaze sharpened, finally. “My wife is dead.”

  They stared at each other. “You will take another very soon,” Tamuron said, finally, consigning the death of a brave, gentle, beautiful girl to a royal cabinet with other irrelevancies. “We must consider the prospects.”

  “Her name was Mahara,” Takyeo replied. “It meant summer wind. She was fond of spicy food and northern bean-curd, and she liked jaelo tea.”

  “So did your mother.” Tamuron’s left hand curled against itself even more tightly, a battle-worn fist finally frail and shaking. The malady, a greedy conflagration, feasted upon his wasted strength. “We cannot waste time, Takyeo. There is Zhaon to consider.”

  “Indeed.” Crown Prince Takyeo gathered himself. The floor squeaked as he rose, leaning heavily upon the cane. “There is no shortage of those considering Zhaon, my father. They crowd this room, they jostle in every palace corridor, they whisper, and they hand silver ingots to assassins.” He took a deep breath. Thick kuluri smoke coated his throat and threatened to choke him. “Zhaon has had so much consideration, in fact, that I find myself wondering if he needs mine.”

  “Ah-Yeo—”

  “Your ministers are anxious, my lord.” Takyeo shook his head. “No doubt they will help you with many plans and schemes. I wish you a pleasant morning.” With that, the Crown Prince of Zhaon turned, and his cane landed heavily as he left the sickroom at the heart of the Land of Five Winds.

  A father’s cry pursued him; robbed of vigor, the shout fell short of its goal. “Ah-Yeo! Takyeo!”

  Even a beast so thoroughly caged as a Crown Prince could break a bar or two when spurred enough.

  RECEIVED THE NEWS

  Again!” Kai roared, and the guards replied, a massive yell rising from many heaving chests. Sweat flew, weighted blades glinted, and the drillyard echoed.

  At least while he was practicing he did not think of her. Or at least, not much.

  Morning drill was coming to an end. The guards were no doubt looking forward to the baths and relief from the glaring eye of the sun, but Kai kept them to it for another form, the blades sweeping laterally, the overhand cut, the thrust, the din of sparring along the sides of the stone-floored yard enough to fill a skull with nothing but cut, cut, move, hua, one, two, jab, hua!

  “Lively, my sons!” the general-father cried, and they replied, full-throat.

  Finally, though, he had to let them go. The ceremony of dismissal, accepting the bows of the square-leaders and column captains, the stacking of practice arms and the good-natured grumbling—oh, he longed for the army, and the familiar rounds of watches set, scout reports to ponder, and other generals to outwit, outlast, outflank.

  It was cleaner work than palace life.

  Wiping his forehead with an already sweat-sodden cloth, he squinted at the angle of the shadows. What was she doing now? Sewing listlessly, or staring at one of the Jonwa’s smaller, exquisite gardens? Yala did not speak even for politeness, nor did Takyeo while in the Jonwa’s hush. The Crown Prince seemed to find some solace in her company, but who knew whether she found solace in anything?

  My princess is dead, was all she had said to Kai, and turned her attention away. And that sharp blade, perhaps somewhere in her clothing. All it would take was a steady hand to drive it home.

  The image stayed with him during the long walk to his own quarters, through Steward Anlon’s fussing and his close-servant’s fumbling of sun-hot half-armor peeled away from a general’s body, through a tepid plunge and the dressing in a fresh robe. It hung before him while he sorted correspondence in his bare, dark-walled study—the eastron and southron armies were in good hands, and his estates were thriving.

  Tamuron had been good to him. Now the Emperor was abed, an unknown malady progressing at a gallop through his once vigorous frame, and if Komor Yala decided to press the sharp tip of that maiden’s blade against her pulse, a single drop of scarlet rising through soft skin…

  Kai did his duty, wrote his replies, and boiled inwardly. At least once he finished this he could present himself at the Jonwa and perhaps sit with her in a darkened room, watching her attempt to sew, the needle pausing in her hands and the material sliding free as her head drooped—

  “My lord?” Steward Anlon was at the door. “A dispatch, from the Northern Army.”

  Kai suppressed a curse. He beckoned the man forward and frowned thunderously as he snapped the seal with an unsatisfying crunch, the breaking of a small bone between sharp teeth. Anlon retreated hastily.

  For a few moments the brushwork made no sense. Kai stared, his brow furrowed and his back and arms reminding him that he had punished himself just as mercilessly as the rows of Golden and princely guards in the drillyard this morning. His head throbbed, an ache from sun, noise, and tension threatening to blind him.

  Then his hands turned cold, and he straightened. “Anlon!”

  His steward reappeared, his dry dark eyes blinking like a confused night-hunter’s. “My lord?”

  “Send a messenger to Mrong Banh. Tell him it is urgent, and to meet me at the Kaeje at once.” Takyeo could not walk, so he could wait to hear the ill news. “Send a messenger to Zan Fein, telling him the same, and one to my adoptive—no, to my mother, telling her I have been called away and will not attend dinner, but not to fret.”

  “My lord.” But Anlon hesitated, knowing his master might have something to add, as he frequently did.

  It was, Kai thought, occasionally useful to be anticipated. His pulse throbbed high and frantic, but he took a deep calming breath. “Send another messenger to the Jonwa. Tell Takyeo I shall be visiting perhaps very late tonight; tell Lady Komor I have been called away upon urgent business, but will visit her as soon as I may.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Anlon whirled and vanished, surprisingly light upon his feet for such an old soldier.

  Kai studied the missive again. His head began to pound afresh, and the copper laid against the back of his palate was an old friend.

  The message was ludicrously simple. Smoke rose from northern border posts vacated after Three Rivers. Patrols upon horseback were now visible, riding the marches. The bridges over the foaming Lu Au and the deep, silent Ka Au were reoccupied. Banners had been raised at the customs houses along the great artery of the Ch’han Trade Road.

  Khir had received the news of their princess’s fate.

  The tenuous peace was over.

  To Be Continued…

  The story continues in…

  BOOK TWO OF THE HOSTAGE OF EMPIRE

  Keep reading for a sneak peek!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing a book is a lonely process; bringing it to publication requires a village. Thanks are due to Miriam Kriss and Sarah Guan for seeing me through and to my family for putting up wi
th me during the whole thing. Thanks are also due to the many historians and linguists whose passion and detailed work provided a foundation for this fictional world, as well as the many actors, directors, and film/television crews who brought several aspects to vivid imaginary life. Any errors, of course, are mine alone.

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  meet the author

  S. C. EMMETT is a pseudonym for bestselling author Lilith Saintcrow. She lives in Vancouver, WA.

  if you enjoyed

  THE THRONE OF THE FIVE WINDS

  look out for

  HOSTAGE OF EMPIRE: BOOK TWO

  by

  S. C. EMMETT

  A STRANGE PAIR

  Outside the westron walls of bustling Zhaon-An, a foreign princess was the second to be laid in the newly built, bone-white tombs.

  The ancient, crumbling mausoleum of petty historical princes and ambitious, likewise-historical warlords was to the north of the city’s seethe, but the Emperor had decreed a new, more auspicious site for the Garan dynasty just outside the westron walls. His first wife’s urn was sealed in a restrained, costly wall there, and any in Zhaon could have reasonably expected that another wife or concubine would follow—or, in the worst case, the Emperor himself.

  Instead, it was Garan Ashan Mahara, daughter of the Great Rider of Khir, whose restrained and beautifully carved eggstone urn was immured next to the Emperor’s sword-wife, and the interment had proceeded with almost unseemly haste.

  Thunder lingered over distant hills as a slight woman in bright pale mourning robes put her palms together and bowed thrice. A small broom to sweep the tomb’s narrow, sealed entrance was set neatly aside, and the carved stone denoting the name and titles of a new ancestor’s shade was marked first in Zhaon characters, then in Khir. Each symbol had the painfully sharp edges of fresh, grieving chisel marks.