The Wall of Storms

^{CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE} THE COMING OF THE CITY-SHIPS

On the northernmost beach in all of Dara, a few children played in the lingering, tired heat of an autumn afternoon. They picked out pretty shells and looked for interesting bits of wreckage that washed up onshore from time to time, not neglecting to pocket the stray clam or oyster, for food was always on the minds of the children of the poor.

“Pirates!” one of the boys called.

His companions stopped to gaze at the sea. A flotilla of ships, all different sizes, appeared on the horizon: slender fishing boats following the designs of old Xana; broad, shallow-drafting cargo vessels taken from the merchants of Wolf’s Paw; sleek wave-riders seized from Arulugi; even a few aged warships captured by the pirates from the Tiro kings in years past. Oars protruded from every deck, and the ragtag sails flapped in the wind. Dipping and rising over the waves, the ragtag fleet appeared as leaves strewn over a pond.

“So many,” a girl muttered. “I’ve never seen so many.”

“It’s a raid!”

A few of the adults in the terrace fields on the hill stopped their work, staring at the approaching flotilla in horror. How many ships were there? Dozens? No, hundreds. It was as if all the pirates of the northern isles were heading for Dara. This would be the largest pirate raid anyone could remember, or even remember hearing tales of.

As the news spread, everyone headed for the hills. People emerged from huts and houses, dropped their farm implements and fishing gear, and ran as fast as their legs could carry them—old, young, male, female, rich, poor… none of that mattered as far as the pirates were concerned. A few villagers had the presence of mind to run to the garrison commanders to report the raid. Hopefully the report could be passed on to Prince Timu in time to organize some semblance of a rescue operation after the pirates had satiated their appetite for destruction and left Dasu.

By the time the pirate ships landed, the beach and the nearby fields were deserted. Pirates spilled out of the vessels onto the sand and headed inland like a swarm of termites over a new house. They leapt over the fences of vegetable gardens and trampled through fields of taro, their legs and arms pumping in a frenzy—woe to any who stood in their way.

Prince Timu might not know much about military affairs, but he knew when to defer to those with better judgment. The Imperial garrisons on Dasu were well trained and knew how to take advantage of terrain and choke points.

A detachment of Imperial soldiers appeared at the top of the ridge. Arrayed in neat formation, the archers pointed their arrows at the approaching tide of pirates. The commanding officer raised his arm, ready to give the order to fire.

The pirates were shouting something.

“…mercy…”

“Run for your lives!…”

“…my eyes… horror…”

The officer hesitated. Something was wrong. But the pirates weren’t slowing down at all, despite the arrows pointed at them.

“Fire at will!”

Volleys of arrows shot toward the pirates, and dozens fell.

Normally, pirate raids retreated in the face of such disciplined resistance—they were bandits of the sea, more interested in plunder and captives than concepts like honor and victory. But not this time. Pirates scrambled over the bodies of their fallen comrades and kept on charging. They were running faster and harder than any assault force the officer had ever seen; it was almost as if they were berserkers—

The commanding officer stared, unable to believe his eyes. The oncoming human tide resolved into individual men and women, some holding babies and children. Most of them wore no armor, and their hands bore no weapons. Instead of a pirate crew seized by battle lust, this was a mob of desperate refugees fleeing from unspeakable terror.

“Mercy! Mercy! Mercy!” the refugees shouted.

Even the most hardened veteran soldier, faced with such a sight of thousands of men and women crying for mercy, could not remain unmoved. The archers’ arms slackened, and most stopped shooting as they looked to the commanding officer for direction.

But he was no longer looking at the pirates. Beyond the crowd of refugees, beyond their abandoned ships, a wooden wall topped with immense sails, clean and white like the surf, loomed over the horizon.

Twenty massive ships, each as tall as the watchtowers of Pan and as big as a small town, bobbed over the waves.

Prince Timu gathered his advisers in Daye to discuss the strangers that had landed on the northern coast of Dasu and set up camp. For now, they seemed content with their tent city on the beach.

“The pirates raid the coasts of Dasu and Rui every year,” said Ra Olu, King Kado’s former regent in Daye and now Prince Timu’s prime civil minister. He wore his sleek hair in a neat triple-scroll bun, and his expensive yellow silk robe complemented his dark complexion perfectly. “They’re desperate, ruthless men, but they do not lack courage. Yet now, these strangers have so frightened them and broken their will to resist that they’re willing to throw themselves at the mercy of the emperor. What manner of monsters must they be? We should attack immediately.”

“On the contrary,” said Zato Ruthi, the prince’s old teacher and his adviser. “The pirates cannot be said to possess true courage as they are without morals. The tales they tell of these strangers are confusing, contradictory, and must not be given credence. Fire-breathing serpents? Death raining from the skies? These sound like the feverish ravings of madmen.

“Even if they did attack the pirates, it may be that the pirates provoked the strangers first, and all civilized men who ply the seas bear a natural antipathy toward piracy. These ships match the description of the city-ships in the legendary fleet of Emperor Mapidéré. Might they be envoys of the immortals from beyond the seas? We should not act as the aggressor.”

“If they are, in fact, immortal guests retrieved by Mapidéré’s fleet,” said Ra Olu, “don’t you think we would have seen an old courtier from Mapidéré’s time emerge from the tents by now?”

“It is possible that Mapidéré’s men and the immortals are waiting for us to act as proper hosts and apologize for the rude sight of those pirates, who were hardly fitting greeters at Dara’s door.”

“If you won’t believe the words of pirates—who are, after all, men of Dara—why would you assume that the intention of the strangers is friendly?” countered an exasperated Ra Olu.

“Because the pirates have proven themselves to be lawless criminals motivated only by greed, but we know nothing of these strangers. As Kon Fiji said, ‘Embrace the stranger who comes over the sea, and the stranger will embrace you.’ ”

“Kon Fiji was hardly thinking of strangers who could make ruthless pirates tremble like leaves in autumn. We should immediately ask for aid from Rui and the emperor himself.”

“The emperor is busy with putting down a rebellion and should not be distracted without more proof of danger,” Ruthi said. “If Prince Timu runs to his father for aid now, he’ll appear as a child who still hasn’t grown up.”

This last argument convinced Timu. “It’s best to find out more about them before overreacting. Master Ruthi, will you act as our envoy to the strangers?” Seeing that Ra Olu was about to object, Timu quickly added, “But it is good to take reasonable precautions. I’ll ask for a fleet of airships from the Imperial air base on Rui to act as an escort. If the strangers are friendly, the ships will be seen as a sign of our esteem of their visit. And if they’re hostile, we’ll be prepared.”

Twenty great airships hovered above the hill overseeing the beach in a straight line. They were each about 180 feet in length, with hulls shaped like sleek dolphins. These were not the largest ships of the fleet, which, following designs dating back to the time of Emperor Mapidéré, tended to approach three hundred feet in length, but they were newer and faster, and were far more kind on the Imperial Treasury.

Below them, a two-thousand-strong honor guard arrayed itself on the slope of the hill. The finest examples of Dara arms, the soldiers stood completely still and silent, their armor glinting in the sun and their polished spears raised like a forest of bamboo. The only sound that could be heard was from the crimson war capes of the officers on horseback flapping in the breeze.

Behind the phalanxes, hundreds of expensive carriages were parked helter-skelter on top of the hill. Temporary shelters and viewing platforms constructed from bamboo and silk stood in the blank spaces between the carriages. Many of the noble and wealthy families of Daye had come out to witness this historic sight: Prince Timu’s representative was about to make contact with immortals from beyond the sea.

“Do you think the immortals will be looking for wives?”

“Ha! Are you thinking of engaging a matchmaker for yourself?”

“Oh, I’m quite happy with my own prospects, thank you very much. But since no boy on Dasu seems good enough for you, maybe only an immortal from overseas can satisfy you, both out of and in the bedroom—aw! Stop pinching!”

“Maybe I don’t want to marry one… but it would be fun to bed an immortal, once. And maybe I can learn their secret and become an immortal! Wouldn’t that be something?”

“Do you think immortals have bad breath in the morning?”

The pampered men and women treated the whole spectacle as a holiday. Excitement swept the crowd as they sat on the comfortable cushions under diaphanous silk roofs, munching on snacks and sipping tea, observing and commenting on the conical white tents that filled the beach like a mat of conch shells, which were dwarfed by the massive ships behind them.

An occasional glimpse of one of the strangers walking between the tents brought exclamations and giggles. Minor nobles imagined the prospects of befriending the immortals and using them to elevate their own status. Wealthy landlords whispered about plans for selling small plots to the immortals at inflated prices and getting them to abandon their tents for luxurious houses. Merchants watched the distant great ships rising and falling on the swell, speculated on the cargo they held, and made bets as to what sort of goods the immortals would be most interested in.

This was the Year of the Cruben after all, a time when the sea was supposed to be especially bounteous in treasure and opportunity.

Behind them, the poor villagers who had been displaced from their homes by the arrival of the strangers watched the scene in a more somber and anxious mood. The only thing they were interested in was when they’d be allowed to return to the fields and resume their lives. They dared not sketch any hopeful visions of the future dependent on the arrival of the immortals—if that was who they were. Whenever things changed in Dara, it seemed that the wealthy and powerful reaped the benefits and left the rest behind.

Calmly, Zato Ruthi set out for the foreign camp on top of a pure white horse. He was escorted by a dozen soldiers also on horseback, bearing gifts from Prince Timu. A giant flag of Dasu, showing a red field charged with the blue figure of a breaching cruben, flapped at the head of the small procession.

Ruthi and his guards merged into the distant camp. Everyone’s gaze followed the flag, now flickering like a tiny flame in a snowfield. What sights and wonders was Ruthi witnessing?

^{CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX} STRANGERS

The tents, squat cylinders about the height of a man topped with flat, conical tips, were made of hide, Zato Ruthi realized as he approached the encampment. The strangers’ camp was surrounded by a low fence built of animal bones lashed together with sinew, each post capped with a sharp-jawed skull, and from the tips of sharp white poles—were they the ribs of some beast?—planted in front of the tents the tails of various animals flapped, much like banners and flags. Behind the tents, the mountainous city-ships undulated with the waves, like whales at rest against the beach.

The immortals certainly have an odd sense of architecture, thought Ruthi. He had always imagined the immortals as ethereal beings who built with gossamer web and silky clouds, with flower petals and dewy leaves. He had imagined them as sophisticated poets and philosophers who communed with the gods and transcended all material needs. The reliance on bones and skin here, on the deaths of animals, seemed rather jarring.

There was an opening in the fence, a gate of sorts, formed from the giant jaws of a shark. The entire scene exuded a sense of stark strength and discipline, a spare simplicity of functional elegance.

As he approached the gap, men emerged from the tents. Some fifty or so came outside the opening and blocked his way. He stopped his horse to observe them closely.

They were generally light-skinned—though heavily tanned by the sun—and the colors of their hair and beards ranged from pure white to a light brown. Dressed in skins and hides, they held war clubs made of bone or driftwood, tipped with shells and stones. Some had their hair entirely shaven off while others wore neat braids that hung against their backs; a few wore helmets made from the skulls of animals. He saw few signs of metal weapons or armor, and no silk or hemp cloth. Many of them looked emaciated and short in stature, and the hides on their bodies were ragged and torn, as though they had been on a long journey with no opportunity to replenish supplies.

The sad state of their clothing made Ruthi realize with a start that some of the “men” were in fact women. He blushed. What sort of immortals would force the women to wield clubs and fight? And so immodestly!

They look like characters who have stepped out of old Ano sagas, Ruthi thought. This must have been how the barbarian natives of these isles looked to our ancestors when they first arrived on the shores of Dara as refugees from the destruction of their homeland in the west.

Though disappointed that the strangers were not immortals after all, Ruthi maintained a respectful expression as he got off his horse. His guards followed suit.

“I come in peace,” he declared to the strangers. “The Emperor of Dara welcomes you to these shores. If you need assistance, my lord, Prince Timu, stands ready to provide whatever you may need.”

One of the barbarians, a tall man who appeared to be in his forties or fifties, stepped forward. He said something to Ruthi, but the latter could make no sense of the string of strange syllables.

Undaunted, Ruthi gestured for his guards to bring the gifts they had prepared to a point about halfway between the two sides and leave them on the ground: a platter of roast pig, a trencher of raw fish cut into designs resembling the Ano logograms for “peace,” a bolt of silk, a scroll upon which Prince Timu had written in calligraphic logograms the words Within the Four Seas, all men are brothers—a quote from Kon Fiji. Ruthi had carefully chosen these gifts to demonstrate Dara’s generosity to strangers while preserving the dignity of the emperor as well as Prince Timu, the emperor’s representative on Dasu.

After leaving the gifts on the ground, Ruthi’s guards stepped back. The tall barbarian, while keeping his eyes on Ruthi, gestured for a few of his retinue to approach the pile of gifts. They poked at the pork and fish, tried some, and then excitedly shouted for more of their companions to join them. They ate ravenously, pushing and shoving each other to get at the food, and soon the pork and fish were gone. The silk was carried back into the camp by two greasy-fingered men. The scroll, on the other hand, was examined and then carelessly dropped.

The impassive expression on the tall barbarian’s face never changed.

Ruthi frowned. This isn’t an auspicious start.

The tall stranger smiled and pointed at himself. “Pékyutenryo,” he enunciated slowly. Then he swept his arm around to indicate the encampment. “Lyucu.”

Now we’re getting somewhere, thought Ruthi. He tried to repeat the unfamiliar syllables as well as he could.

Pékyutenryo—whom Ruthi decided must be some kind of barbarian chief—nodded, apparently satisfied.

Ruthi pointed at himself, and slowly said, “Zato Ruthi.” Then he imitated Pékyutenryo and swept his arm to indicate the distant Dara army and airships. “Dara.”

Pékyutenryo grinned, baring two rows of uneven teeth. Somehow the expression seemed feral and threatening, rather than friendly. But afraid of offending the barbarians, Ruthi imitated the grin.

These people who call themselves the Lyucu may not be immortals, but they don’t seem impossible to deal with.

Pékyutenryo now pointed to Ruthi’s guards and mimed a series of motions that reminded Ruthi of undressing. Ruthi blushed, as did the rest of the men of Dara. Were these barbarians without shame?

Seeing Ruthi and his guards hesitate made the chief frown.

A few of the barbarians came to the aid of their king. They laid their weapons on the ground next to their feet and took off the ragged pieces of hide and fur on their bodies—both men and women!—until they were dressed only in rough loincloths woven from some kind of grass fiber.

Ruthi blushed even more furiously and was about to order the rest of his retinue to avert their eyes to preserve the modesty of these brazen barbarians when the undressed barbarians stopped, pointed to the weapons, and then pointed at themselves again, slapping their hands up and down their bodies.

“Oh, he means for us to disarm! It’s a security precaution.” Ruthi nodded vigorously to show that he finally understood. He turned to his guards. “Go ahead, do as they ask.”

“Master Ruthi, is this wise?” asked Jima, the captain of the guards, who was also responsible for bearing the standard of Dara. “Not knowing their intentions, we should not enter their camp defenseless.”

“This is the problem with spending your life fighting instead of studying the books of the sages,” admonished Zato Ruthi. “Where’s your capacity for empathy? You have to try to think about this from their perspective. Look at how primitive their equipment and dwellings are! Not a single metal weapon to be seen anywhere. Look at how quickly they devoured the food we presented! Imagine yourself in a strange country far from home, hungry, terrified, surrounded by a powerful army with weapons and armor far more advanced than yours. If a group of them wished to enter your camp, wouldn’t you also demand some gesture of good faith?”

“I’ve been a soldier all my life, Master Ruthi. Trust me, though we may have better weapons, I can tell you these people are not afraid of us.”

“Dara is the land of civilization,” said Ruthi severely. “Our ancestors came to this land and pacified the savages, and I expect the gods have spread our fame far and wide beyond these shores.

“These barbarians have braved the unpredictable whale’s way to come to us, drawn by the shining beacon of our way of life. We must demonstrate to them our superior grace. A just man has no cause to fear treachery, and even if they have some plot against us, our righteousness and good faith will surely shame them into realizing the error of their ways. Disarm now lest we stain the honor of our lords, the Emperor of Dara and his faithful firstborn.”

Reluctantly, Captain Jima and the other guards disarmed, leaving their weapons and armor in a pile next to the empty platters that had borne the other gifts.

Pékyutenryo grinned even wider, and he waved his hands in a decisive gesture. His retinue parted to the sides of the shark’s-jaw gate, leaving the way into the encampment open.

Up on the hill, the spectators of Dara cheered.

“They’re going in!”

“You have sharp eyes, Dümo. Can you see what’s happening?”

“They’re too far away. But I think the strangers just bowed. Maybe Master Ruthi really impressed them with his learning? And they bowed again!”

“But they were doing it after Master Ruthi and his men already went in. Why would they bow when he couldn’t see them?”

“Well… this is where your lack of schooling holds you back. I remember reading once about the customs of the natives of Crescent Island at the time of the arrival of the Ano. Bowing after someone has left is a sign of even greater respect than bowing to their face—”

“I had no idea you were such an expert on the heroic sagas, Yehun! Was this in the Saga of He-Whose-Name-Is-a-Mouthful? I read it too!”

“Um… yes, that’s the one! Very obscure—I’m surprised you know it. Now, as I was saying, this was an ancient custom that existed in the Islands long before the settlement of the Ano, but it makes perfect sense if you remember—wait, why are the three of you laughing like hyenas behind my back?”

“Oh, Yehun, you poor, arrogant ass, there is no such thing as the Saga of He-Whose-Name-Is-a-Mouthful! Just because you’re the only toko dawiji among us doesn’t mean you have to have all the answers all the time.”

“A superior mind need not be troubled by the petty—”

“Do you want us to continue to pay you the only kind of ‘respect’ you deserve, bowed over in laughter?”

Zato Ruthi knelt down in formal mipa rari in the middle of the great tent, which was about the height of three men stacked foot-to-shoulder and about twenty yards wide. The floor was carpeted in the soft fur of some unknown animal. Ruthi stared at the walls of the tent with some interest: The hide was translucent, reminding him of the thin, furry membranes of bat wings. Though he was well-read and knowledgeable, he couldn’t tell what beasts the hide was taken from.

The barbarian chief strolled to the front of the tent and sat down in cross-legged géüpa. Other barbarians—nobles and chieftains, to judge by their massive war clubs and the elaborate bone and shell jewelry they wore—sat down around the perimeter of the tent in a chaotic jumble, some in géüpa, and some even in thakrido, with their legs spread and stretched out, including the women.

Captain Jima, who knelt behind Ruthi, frowned. Ruthi was the representative of the emperor himself, and for Pékyutenryo and his chieftains to treat Ruthi with such disrespect was unacceptable. But before he could say anything, Zato Ruthi restrained him with a hand.

“They may not share the same understanding of our sitting positions,” whispered Ruthi. “The mark of a civilized people is to be tolerant and not take offense at ignorance. We shall honor this Pékyutenryo as the king of his people.”

The captain gritted his teeth and said nothing. Something about the way the barbarian nobles and chieftains laughed and whispered at each other bothered him. This did not seem like a king receiving an ambassador from another land, or even a gathering to welcome friendly strangers. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but… why did Pékyutenryo look so satisfied?

A few young barbarians brought in the weapons and armor left by Ruthi’s guards at the entrance to the camp and deposited the pile in front of the king. Pékyutenryo said something to the young people, who nodded and left.

“You see,” said Ruthi to Jima, “there’s nothing to worry about. They even brought your weapons in. I’m sure soon, after we’ve established trust, they’ll give the weapons back to you.”

Pékyutenryo looked at Zato Ruthi and his men, sitting awkwardly in the center of the tent, and grinned some more. Ruthi nodded and returned the same ridiculous grin. The Lyucu nobles began to pass around a large, crude ceramic bowl and took sips from it in turn, and the noise of conversation gradually filled the space.

After taking a drink from the bowl himself, Pékyutenryo gestured for one of his men to bring the bowl to Ruthi. Ruthi accepted the bowl reverently and examined the contents: something that smelled of alcohol and milk, with frothy foam around the bowl’s rim.

“Kyoffir!” Pékyutenryo said, pointing at the bowl. Then he mimed quaffing heartily.

Ruthi brought the bowl up to his mouth. It didn’t smell like cow’s milk or goat’s milk or even mare’s milk; rather, the fragrance was… herbal. Tentatively, he took a sip. The taste was pungent, faintly medicinal, and the liquid burned his throat as he swallowed. The consistency of the drink was thick, not unlike an alcoholic yogurt. It also had a very strong kick, and Ruthi, not much of a drinker normally, coughed and sputtered as tears welled into his eyes.

The Lyucu nobles roared with laughter, and even Pékyutenryo himself chuckled. Ruthi wiped his eyes and set the bowl down, once again grinning foolishly.

Thankfully, the barbarian guards who had been sent away earlier returned, carrying with them more weapons and armor. They left these in a separate pile by the equipment taken from Ruthi’s men, and Pékyutenryo got up, walked over, picked up a helmet from each pile, and compared them, paying no attention to Ruthi.

“The weapons from that other pile also have the look of being from Dara,” said Captain Jima. He didn’t bother to whisper, as the barbarians clearly could make no more sense of the conversation between him and Ruthi than the two of them could make sense of Lyucu speech. “Where did they get them? The pirates?”

“That sword”—Ruthi squinted—“appears to be of Xana design. If I’m not mistaken, it is a helmet from the time of Mapidéré, more than two decades ago.”

“Emperor Mapidéré’s expedition?”

Ruthi nodded. “Has to be.”

Pékyutenryo continued to pick out objects from one pile—a sword, a gauntlet, a helmet, a shield, a bow—and find counterparts from the other pile, scrutinizing and comparing them. From time to time he called for a few of his nobles to approach, and the small group would confer and examine the weapon or armor, arguing or agreeing with each other loudly.

Ruthi and Jima stared at the mysterious exercise, utterly baffled.

“Perhaps they’re comparing the artistic styles in the pieces to authenticate that we’re indeed the origin of the wondrous artifacts they received from Emperor Mapidéré,” said a hopeful Ruthi.

Eventually, Pékyutenryo seemed satisfied with whatever he was doing and ordered his guards to take all the weapons and armor away. Then the guards brought out a large, shallow, circular tray that seemed to be made from a thin layer of hide stretched across a frame of curved bones and set it down before Ruthi. It was filled with beach sand.

Pékyutenryo sat down opposite Ruthi—in thakrido, naturally—with the tray of sand between them. Then he picked up a stick and drew on the sand.

Ruthi watched as Pékyutenryo drew a line across the sand, and then a small circle in the upper portion. The barbarian king then looked at Ruthi and pointed up at the ceiling of the tent.

He’s telling me that circle is the sun, and this line is the land, Ruthi thought.

Pékyutenryo drew a few ovals in the sky, with long wings sticking out of them. The drawing might be crude, but it was clear that these were meant to represent the Imperial airships. He continued by drawing some mushroom-like objects on the land at the other end: apparently, the barbarian encampment.

Then Pékyutenryo mimed ducking in fear as he looked up at the ceiling of the tent. Grinning again, he handed the stick to Ruthi, who was not at all clear as to what was wanted.

Pékyutenryo took the stick back and drew some arrows shooting out of the airships at the camp, and handed the stick back to Ruthi. He gave Ruthi a questioning look and mimed terror again.

Ruthi laughed. “No, no! The ships are just here as part of the welcoming ceremony; not an attack force.”

Pékyutenryo looked at him, a look of incomprehension on his face.

Ruthi tried again. He erased the arrows from the sand and tried to draw some flowers dropping from the airships to fall on the camp—but the flowers came out looking like snowflakes. “Peace,” he shouted, as if speaking louder would make the barbarian understand. “Not war!” Then he mimed smiling and hugging and drinking from the large bowl, smacking his lips.

Pékyutenryo looked even more confused. Then he appeared to have thought of a new tack. He drew some stick-figure men on horses below the airships—the Imperial phalanxes—and then drew the barbarians rushing out of their encampment, war clubs raised high overhead as they charged at the Dara army.

Grinning, he handed the stick back to Ruthi.

Ruthi looked at him with a tense expression, spreading his hands in supplication and question.

Pékyutenryo mimed laughing, holding his belly as though some joke was killing him. He pointed at the sand tray again.

“Ah, he’s talking about a hypothetical,” said the relaxed Ruthi. “A joke, as it were.”

“I don’t think so,” said Jima. “This is not a matter of jokes; he’s probing our defenses. Master Ruthi, we should leave immediately.”

“Nonsense,” said Ruthi. “This is about two minds coming together to communicate. Exercise your atrophied empathy, Captain Jima! Since he’s curious about how we’d respond, wouldn’t it be better to show him the might of Dara’s arms in a sandbox than to have him find out through actual warfare? The emperor has always wanted to minimize the loss of lives.”

So Ruthi started to draw on the sand. As the former King of Rima, he was quite knowledgeable about classic military tactics. Using a series of diagrams, he showed Pékyutenryo how the Imperial phalanxes would shift in formation, falling back in the center while flanking the barbarian charge with both wings until the attackers were surrounded. Then he illustrated how the barbarians, outclassed in weapons and armor, would be slaughtered or captured.

The expression of both admiration and terror on Pékyutenryo’s face appeared genuine.

“Now, you don’t need to worry!” Ruthi hurried to reassure his host. “This is just a hypothetical. Hy-po-the-ti-cal! Pretend!” He mimed holding his belly and laughing.

Pékyutenryo nodded vigorously and grinned ingratiatingly at the Imperial envoy.

Zato Ruthi felt elated. He might once have met a humiliating defeat at the hands of Gin Mazoti in the woods of Rima, but here, today, he had managed to intimidate and impress a barbarian king into willing submission to the Emperor of Dara just by drawing pictures in sand!

Pékyutenryo wiped the sand tray clean and drew the Lyucu encampment and the Imperial airships overhead again. He pretended to cower in fear while looking up at the sky again; then he mimed holding his belly and laughing.

Hypothetically, how would the Emperor of Dara attack me from the air?

All the other barbarian chieftains gathered around the sand tray. Pékyutenryo handed the stick to Ruthi and gestured for him to continue.

“Master Ruthi,” pleaded Captain Jima. “This does not feel right. You should not reveal to them our capabilities or explain airship-to-ground tactics. We know almost nothing about how they fight!”

“Shush! You are acting like some paranoid, silly peasant, instead of a confident officer of the Imperial Army. What’s wrong with showing them what our airships can do? Our might will fill them with awe and inspire them to give us due respect. This is how a great civilization impresses lesser ones.”

And so Ruthi continued to draw in the sand, showing the barbarians how Dara’s airships attacked with firebombs.

Pékyutenryo held out five fingers, paused, balled his hand into a fist, paused, and then held out five fingers again. He pointed to the airships and then spread out his hands, giving Ruthi a questioning look.

Ruthi pondered for a bit, and then understood what Pékyutenryo was getting at. He drew an airship and filled it with little circles, showing a few of the circles dropping from the airship at the camp—a volley of firebombs. He held out all ten fingers to Pékyutenryo, balled them into fists, and then held them out again… he repeated the process five times to show that each airship carried around fifty firebombs, more than enough to do massive damage to the Lyucu encampment. Then he erased the little circles inside the airship to make it appear empty.

Pékyutenryo grinned and said something to his nobles, who all laughed. Then Pékyutenryo picked up the bowl of alcoholic yogurt—the “kyoffir”—and handed it to Ruthi. Ruthi drank from it happily. The strong drink was having a positive effect on his mood.

“Thank you for your information,” said Pékyutenryo. His accent was heavy, but the words were clearly understandable.

Ruthi looked over the rim of the kyoffir bowl, stunned. Behind him, Jima and the rest of Ruthi’s men leapt up in alarm. But they were too late. Pékyutenryo’s war club had already crushed Ruthi’s skull, and the other Lyucu nobles made short work of the rest of the delegation from Dara.

“Something’s happening! They are coming out of the big tent!”

“But where’s Master Ruthi?”

“Why is the Imperial standard on the ground?”

“Are they lining up to surrender?”

The chatter among the crowd died down as they watched the barbarians stream out of the encampment, form into long lines, and then march toward the Imperial phalanxes, war clubs waving. The sea breeze carried their shouts to the crowd—unmistakable war cries.

Although the Lyucu host, about a mile off, outnumbered the Imperial troops, Ra Olu wasn’t worried. He ordered the phalanxes to move forward to meet the oncoming barbarian charge. Flag signals were given for the airships to approach the barbarian horde and begin bombing.

“These clowns dare to challenge the might of Prince Timu!”

“They’re going to die before they even know what hit them!”

“Drive them back into the sea!”

The barbarians got closer. Those with sharp eyes among the crowd noticed the wretched state of their weapons and clothing; even the pirates had been better equipped. The audience from Dasu, instead of being fearful, grew excited at the prospect of witnessing a one-sided slaughter.

“This is going to be a day that will live on in song and story.”

“Can they not see how overmatched they are?”

“I can’t believe how foolish these savages are!”

“Are some of those barbarians women? How cruel must their husbands and fathers be!”

The Lyucu charge stopped just outside the range of the archers under Ra Olu’s command.

Have they suddenly realized the futility of their attack? Ra Olu thought. He gave the order for the airships to dive and begin bombing.

Like well-choreographed dancers, gasmen inside the airships tightened the straps around the gasbags to reduce lift, and the oarsmen pulled hard against the feathered oars. Like giant Mingén falcons spiraling down to seize prey, the bamboo-and-silk airships dove. Soldiers inside the gondolas prepared the buckets of burning tar and opened the bomb bay doors as the ships streaked over the barbarian formation.

The Lyucu commanders whistled, and the horde broke up into small groups of fifty or so each. Most of the individuals in each group ducked in place while those at the edges of the formations raised their war clubs and planted them at their feet like spears. The squatting barbarian warriors helped unfurl and stretch sheets of some hide-like material—clearly the same material that made up their tents—over their heads, to be held up by the war clubs erected at the edge. The effect was as if small tents suddenly sprouted over the heads of groups of barbarian warriors.

This seemed a desperate measure—the hide-like material looked so thin and light that it was nearly translucent; surely the firebombs would make short work of it.

The tar bombs struck the shelters and exploded. A few of the bombs hit the ground near the tents and splashed burning tar onto the exposed legs and bodies of the Lyucu warriors at the edges of the formations. They screamed, howled, dropped their war clubs, and rolled around on the ground, but their nearest companions immediately took over the duty of holding up their war clubs to keep the tents from collapsing.

As the sizzling tar burned into their skin and flesh, their pitiable shrieks first grew louder, and then weaker as their flapping limbs and gyrating bodies slowed down, and then stilled.

Dara soldiers and onlookers cheered. This slaughter was even more exciting than they had imagined.

But soon, the cheers turned into cries of astonishment.

The exploded tar bombs had turned the temporary shelters over the heads of the barbarians into pools of flaming lava, but somehow, the thin material managed to hold. The sizzling, smoking tar burned brightly atop the tents but seemed unable to set the material itself ablaze.

The Lyucu warriors who were ducked down at the center of the fire shelters poked up their war clubs in a rhythmic pattern, and the cover of each tent began to undulate like the surface of the sea. Most of the burning tar, carried by the waves, soon sloughed off the tents and fell harmlessly to the ground.

The airships swooped around and began a second bombing run. Realizing that the tents themselves were more fire-resistant than anticipated, the airship captains now changed tactics and ordered the bomb crews to shift their aim so that the bombs would explode on the ground near the tents rather than on the tents. The hope was that this would injure enough of the tent-pole holders by splash damage that the tents would collapse.

But the Lyucu warriors were prepared for this. As the airships dove toward the fire shelters, the warriors in each formation began to move as one: Hundreds of legs pumped in sync and the tents headed toward the diving airships to ensure that the bombs again exploded harmlessly against the protective umbrellas overhead.

A few formations, unable to adjust their speed properly, did end up running into the pools of burning tar on the ground, and the injured warriors had to roll around on the ground in an attempt to put out the fires while the rest of the individuals in the formation scrambled to get out of the way of further damage. Most of the moving shelters, however, escaped the second bombing run also unscathed.

Ra Olu realized that he had underestimated the barbarians, who appeared to be surprisingly well prepared for airship assaults. But he had been an experienced low-level field commander during the Chrysanthemum-Dandelion War and knew how to quickly adjust to changing circumstances. Immediately, he gave additional orders for the flag corps to issue to the airships.

The airships turned around once more and headed for the barbarian encampment. As they passed the line of many-legged, temporary field tents—wriggling like jellyfish over a placid sea—they dropped another volley of firebombs. The ships flew low and synchronized their motion so that all the bombs landed approximately in a line between the barbarian attackers and their camp. As the bombs exploded, the burning tar coalesced into a flaming barrier that separated the barbarian horde from their home base. The huddled barbarians could only watch as their route of retreat was cut off.

Ra Olu grinned and gave the order for the Imperial phalanxes to advance. As soon as they were in range, Ra Olu was going to give the order for the archers to fire: The barbarians would be trapped between the wall of fire behind them and the wall of arrows ahead of them. Meanwhile, the airships would go on to bomb the barbarian ships. The entire Lyucu invasion force was going to die here on the shore of Dasu today.

The airships approached the encampment like the great Mingén falcons approaching a fresh fishing ground. The city-ships were fat, juicy fish trapped in the shallows, ripe for picking.

Ra Olu’s phalanxes advanced steadily. With each step, the invaders were closer to their deaths.

“Fire!” ordered Ra Olu.

Thousands of arrows shot out, traversing the distance between the Imperial phalanxes and the barbarian line in seconds.

However, the Lyucu warriors had shifted their defensive postures so that the sheets of strange hide-like material, stained with remnants of the burning tar, were now stretched like wide screens across the front of the line. The warriors near the front stepped on the bottom edge of the hides and leaned forward, bracing their war clubs in front of them, while those behind them pulled back on the top edge of the hides so that everyone was shielded behind the protruding “pouch.”

Arrows thudded against the hides and fell harmlessly to the ground, though some of the warriors who were bracing against the front of the shelters grunted with pain as the force of the arrow strikes bruised their bodies, even cracking a few ribs and arm bones.

What is that extraordinary material? marveled Ra Olu. I have never heard of such a tough hide. What kind of beast does it come from?

But he didn’t have the opportunity to ponder this mystery for too long. Cries of alarm and shock rose from his soldiers and the civilian onlookers. Ra Olu looked up, and the signal trumpet in his hands dropped to the ground.

In the distance, gigantic, nightmarish beasts emerged from the great city-ships and climbed into the air.

The creatures were unlike anything Ra Olu had ever seen, an impossible amalgamation of features from different species: a barrel-shaped body about the size of three or four elephants—using the airships hovering nearby for scale; a serpentlike tail that trailed in the air; two clawed feet, like those on falcons, extended below the belly; a pair of great leathery wings that spanned 120 feet or more; and a long, slender neck topped with a deerlike, antlered head.

Ten, twenty, thirty, more of them kept on rising into the air. With their massive wingspans and long necks, each appeared about two-thirds the length of an Imperial airship, though the torsos were much smaller. The beasts swooped, and, with a speed that seemed unimaginable for their bulk, flew at the airships.

Stunned, the first airship captain didn’t even have the chance to order a response before two of the beasts tore into the hull. They slashed with their claws and snapped with their jaws, whipping their necks about violently. The silk surface and the bamboo frames snapped beneath claws and teeth like toothpicks, and the gasbags inside were punctured within seconds. The crew screamed and leapt from the gondolas, plunging hundreds of feet to their deaths.

The other airship captains recovered from their initial stupor and ordered flame arrows to be shot while the oarsmen pushed with all their might to guide the airships in retreat. But the arrows bounced harmlessly off the wings and bodies of the beasts like mosquitoes trying to sting elephants, and some instead struck other airships and started fires.

Ra Olu finally understood what material the tents and barriers of the barbarians were made from.

The beasts descended on the fleet of Imperial airships, which had once seemed so graceful and nimble, but now appeared clumsy and lumbering next to the speedy flight of these deadly creatures. None of the airships lasted more than a minute under the assault by two or three of the creatures.

Flaming wreckage fell from the sky, drifting in the wind like clouds at sunset. Dying crewmen dove from the fiery hulks, screaming as they plunged to their deaths. Many in the crowd of Dasu observers averted their eyes from this horror. A few began to pack up their carts in preparation to flee.

Soon, the sky was cleared of airships, and the dreadful beasts gathered into a loose formation and headed for the Imperial phalanxes.

Only now did Ra Olu understand that the initial Lyucu charge had been but a ruse. It was designed to test the strength of the Imperial forces, to lure them into attacking and demonstrating their tactics while the barbarians held them in place until the aerial beasts could be summoned.

Ra Olu knew that he had to be decisive; he had only one chance.

“Charge!” he gave the order.

The stunned Imperial forces were still sufficiently disciplined to obey. Archers stepped forward, let loose another volley of arrows, and then dropped their bows and switched to their defensive short swords. They fell back as the spearmen marched forward and the ordered ranks of spear tips, aimed at the barbarian horde, rushed forward.

The barbarians dropped their hide-barrier, let out a deafening war cry, and rushed to meet the Imperial charge with their war clubs.

Like a surging tide crashing into a rocky beach, the two sides clashed. Bone struck shield, and spear and sword tore into flesh. Men and women howled and hollered, bled and died.

Overhead, the beasts flew right over the maelstrom of opposing forces and headed for the audience behind the Imperial soldiers.

The Dasu civilians who had come to witness the drama of first contact with the strangers screamed and scattered. Carriages crashed into each other; horses trampled over people; and the wealthy shrieked for the help of their servants—but all the servants sensible enough to be of any use had already fled. All was chaos.

The beasts dove down, pulling up only when they were thirty or forty feet from the ground. Their wings beat furiously as they hovered near the earth, the rush of air from their great wings making those below them cower.

A few daring men and women looked up and their hearts were chilled by what they saw: The torso of each beast was covered by a fine web of netting made of some tough fiber mixed with sinew, and a dozen or so barbarian warriors strapped themselves into the webbing on either side of each beast like sailors clinging to the rigging of a tall ship, holding bone spears and wishbone slingshots. A single barbarian pilot wearing a helmet made of an animal skull sat at the base of each beast’s neck, securely strapped into a saddle.

The eyes of the men and women riding the beasts were as dark and implacable as the reptilian eyes of their mounts.

The beasts reared back, opened and closed their massive jaws rapidly a few times to reveal long, sharp upper canines like curved swords, and then snapped their necks forward, letting loose jets of fire from their mouths.

It was as if Mount Kiji had finally erupted. Dozens of fiery tongues made of flames, each almost a hundred feet long, lashed across the crowd and turned the ground into boiling lava. Some were instantly incinerated while others ran screaming from the scene, their bodies on fire. The smell of charred flesh filled the air and acrid smoke obscured everything. It was truly a scene from hell.

The Imperial soldiers in their phalanxes glanced back and were utterly stunned. The barbarian warriors, seeing the devastation wrought by their aerial support, roared with approval and shouted as one, “Garinafin, garinafin! Pékyutenryo! Pékyutenryo!”

The will to fight left the army of Dara and the Imperial lines collapsed as soldiers stumbled and ran. The barbarians rushed forward and bashed their skulls open with their war clubs while overhead the beasts swooped and chased after survivors, who were dispatched by the riders with precise strikes from their slingshots….

In the distance, Ra Olu whipped his horse to run even faster. He had started to run as soon as he had given the order for the charge.

His heart ached for the young men he had sent to their deaths, but this was the only way to buy himself some time to escape and bring the news to Daye.

All the stories told by the pirates were true. The invaders were powerful beyond measure, and Dasu was doomed.

^{CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN} THE PRINCE’S STAND

In Daye, a fast Imperial messenger ship was readied to bring news of the invasion to the emperor.

To make the vehicle fly as fast as possible, the ship would have no crew except the oarsmen—most of them women picked for a balance of light weight, strength, and endurance. Instead of relying on the drumming of a coxswain, the rowers would try to keep in sync by singing popular folk songs with strong beats. Every bit of weight that could be dispensed with was eliminated: Interior bulkheads within the gondola were taken out; weapons and armor were abandoned—it wasn’t as if arrows or pikes or grappling hooks for boarding would do much good against the barbarians’ flying beasts, which apparently were called “garinafin”; and the ship would carry no provisions or water, the crew relying on the water condensed against and collected from the fog-catching silken hull as the ship passed through the clouds to slake their thirst.

Despite Ra Olu’s strenuous urging, Prince Timu refused to board the ship to escape.

“It would be useless to include me among the crew,” said Prince Timu. “I would be winded after no more than a quarter of an hour manning one of the oars. Now I wish I had listened to Théra and Phyro and paid more attention to athletics.”

Ra Olu stamped his foot in frustration. “No one is asking you to row the ship! Your safety is the primary concern right now.”

“Nonsense. Master Ruthi had always taught me that without faith and loyalty, men are little better than beasts. The emperor sent me here to make the lives of the people of Dasu better. Now that they’re under threat, it would be a betrayal of their trust and the trust of the emperor to abandon them.”

Thinking of his own escape from the battlefield, Ra Olu blushed.

Mistaking Olu’s silence for sorrow, Timu tried to comfort him. “Don’t be too sad at the loss of Master Ruthi. He had always wanted to live his life in accordance with the precepts of the Moralist sages. And I’m certain that he died with no regrets.”

For an hour, Timu sobbed inconsolably for the death of Zato Ruthi, his teacher and the shaper of his mind. There would never be another scholar as gentle and forgiving in all of Dara.

Then he wiped away his tears. He did not forget his duty.

Based on Ra Olu’s description, Timu was prepared for garinafin riders to appear in the sky at any moment, ahead of barbarian foot soldiers marching across the land. However, the sky in the east remained clear.

By questioning some of the refugees who were streaming into the city from the Dasu countryside, Ra Olu learned that the garinafins were not scouting ahead of the advancing barbarian army; instead, they were resting on the beach where they had slaughtered the two-thousand-strong army of Dasu.

“Do they seek to desecrate the bodies of the martyred soldiers?” asked Prince Timu, his voice quivering.

Ra Olu shook his head. “The barbarian king, this Pékyutenryo, is crafty. He spoke with Master Ruthi for a long while before attacking, and one may surmise that he was trying to pump the master for useful information. The attack that he launched was carefully planned and seemed intended to cause us the greatest injury possible. I don’t think he would give up the chance to launch a lightning attack and take over all of Dasu if these garinafins were capable of it.”

“What do you mean?”

Ra Olu explained patiently. “After bursts of exertion, most animals need some time to recover. Consider the long-legged leopard of Écofi, which is said to be the fastest animal on land: It dashes through the grass fast as a bolt of lightning to chase down quarry, but then it must rest for half a day before it can even get up and move again. Considering that display of fiery strength I witnessed from the garinafins, it would not surprise me that they would need time to recoup.”

“Time to recoup…,” muttered Timu. “Then… they’re not invincible after all. Even though they breathe fire and seem to have hides of steel.”

“No. I’m certain that they’re mortal, the same as you and I. They cannot fly across all of Dara without pause, raining down fiery death upon everyone.”

Prince Timu called for his brush and inkwell, and hastened to compose an addendum to the report he had drafted for Emperor Ragin on the invasion.

The messenger airship left without Prince Timu aboard.

By the time the barbarian horde finally reached the city of Daye later that day, they found a city with its gates wide open. The garinafins, about thirty in number, waddled amongst barbarian warriors like awkward, oversized whales-with-chicken-feet struggling to make their way on land, their wings folded neatly around their bodies.

Prince Timu, who stood with Ra Olu in front of the city gates, was reminded of the fantastic creations of Kita Thu years ago at the Imperial examination, when he had tried to analogize Emperor Ragin’s empire to a cruben-wolf that was at home neither on land nor in water.

“I heard the men of Dara prize honor,” declared Pékyutenryo, who was riding at the base of the neck of a pure white garinafin that appeared even bigger and taller than the other beasts. “But are they so cowardly that they will not even fight me before begging for their lives?” Despite his accent, the arrogance in his voice was easy to perceive.

Timu looked up into the face of the barbarian king and answered, “King Pékyutenryo, you misunderstand. I’m not here to beg you for my life at all; you may take it if you wish.”

Pékyutenryo looked down at the young prince, amused. “My name is Tenryo Roatan. ‘Pékyu’ is a title, much like your ‘emperor.’ Who are you?”

“I am Timu, Prince of Dara and Lord of Dasu.”

Tenryo looked at Timu with even more interest. “You don’t know how to fight, do you? Look at your smooth skin, your thin arms, your frail frame. With a prince like you, your father’s empire is but a child’s play tent.”

Timu refused to take the bait. “You have already killed thousands—but they were soldiers, and it was their duty to die in defense of the people, a duty that I am bound by as well. To carry out that duty, I’ve given orders for the people of the city of Daye, and indeed of the entire island of Dasu, to cease all resistance. There is no honor in fighting a hopeless war. Lives are more important.”

Tenryo now looked at Timu with something approaching respect. “If you’re not interested in saving yourself, then what are you doing blocking my way into the city?”

“I come here to warn you that if you dare to harm the unarmed people of Dasu, then even as a ghost, I will lead the people in a war against you until you are driven back into the sea!”

Though Timu was but a young teenaged boy who appeared more comfortable with the writing brush than the sword, he made this speech with a steady voice and a serene demeanor.

Ra Olu felt a thrilling joy as he watched Timu. Prince Timu may not have the frame or build of a warrior, but Fithowéo is also the god of those who are armed with only their pride, who strive and assay and press and toil, all the while knowing that they cannot win.

King Jizu must have looked just like this when he stopped the destruction of Na Thion by Tanno Namen.

After a pause, Tenryo laughed. “Prince Timu, you are very much mistaken if you think I’m afraid of ghosts. I care not for the petty musings of your philosophers, and I have slain more people than you can imagine.

“I have been betrayed countless times in my life, and I, in turn, have betrayed those who thought me subjugated by a promise. Experience has taught me that even the bond between parent and child is no guarantee of faith. Obedience can be enforced only through terror and death, not grand gestures invoking the names of the gods or invisible spirits. A scene of carnage will pacify an unruly population more than all the pretty speeches in the world.”

Timu stared at Tenryo, and for the first time, the reality of what he was facing seemed to be sinking in. “That… is a philosophy of evil.”

“Good and evil are mere labels we place on deeds that benefit or harm us, and I have wagered the lives of my thanes and warriors upon a mere hope for refuge in the shoreless sea. To them I owe every duty, but to you and yours: nothing. A better life for my people is the only good for which I strive.

“I intend to conquer all of Dara, and I’ll not stop until all the men of these islands lay prostrate at my feet, living or dead, and the lamentation of their women has overwhelmed the tides.”

Timu’s face twisted in a mixture of terror and defiance. Tenryo gazed down at him, and the pékyu’s voice was almost compassionate as he spoke again.

“Do not be afraid for your own life—you’re more useful alive. But you will watch as we make an example of Daye: It is perhaps the most valuable lesson of all.”

The slaughter of Daye lasted three days.

^{CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT} THE EMPRESS’S REQUEST

Footsteps echoed through the circular hall. Still the only prisoner in these lonely cells, Gin Mazoti looked up.

Two figures emerged from the shadows and stopped on the other side of the bars. One was a guard holding a large ring of keys. Behind him was Empress Jia, holding a wooden tray on which sat a porcelain flask and a single cup, both of which glowed with a pale white light. The guard opened the door to the cell.

Empress Jia nodded at the guard. “You may leave.”

The guard looked at Gin, who remained seated, and then looked back at the empress.

“Leave,” said the empress, less patiently this time.

The guard bowed and left, the jangling of his keys gradually fading until they disappeared into the silent shadows.

Jia came in, set down the tray in front of Gin, and sat opposite her in géüpa, as though she and Gin were simply friends sitting down for an afternoon chat. Slowly, she poured for Gin, her movements steady and methodical. When the cup was filled, she pushed the cup toward Gin.

The fragrance of osmanthus, sweet and mind-cleansing, filled the air and relieved the cell of some of its dankness.

Just one cup, thought Gin. She doesn’t even bother to pretend anymore.

“This is from the basement of an old Amu noble family in Dimushi whose property escheated to the state when they were found to be plotting treason. The vintage is among the best for osmanthus wine, I’m told, though I’m no expert. Since you were from Dimushi, I thought you would appreciate it more than I.”

“I suppose that Amu noble’s acts of treason were more substantial than mine.”

“You don’t consider harboring the leaders of a rebellion under the banner of the Hegemon treason?”

“I consider it a duty to protect witnesses to a plot brewing at the side of the emperor as he lies asleep.”

The way Jia froze told Gin that her guesses had been right. It was cold comfort, but it was some comfort.

“Noda Mi and Doru Solofi were fools,” said Gin. “They never understood that they were mere stones in someone else’s cüpa game. And Rin… ah, Rin… he was always too insecure.”

“I always knew that you would be the one to figure it out,” muttered Jia. “You were always the better tactician.”

“Not as good as you,” said Gin.

“You waited too long,” said Jia in agreement. “I never thought you’d be so bold as to harbor those two. At most I hoped that Zomi Kidosu might convince you to save some of their followers. But when you saved Mi and Solofi, I knew that I had to move right away.”

“I thought the emperor would listen to me.”

“You relied on his trust; that was always your blind spot.”

Gin picked up the cup, and still saying nothing, drained it in one gulp. The wine was excellent, pure and dry, probably the best Gin had ever had.

She waited for the burning to start in her stomach. She hoped that the poison would act quickly. Considering all her service to the House of Dandelion, she should at least be owed that.

But there was no scalding sensation in her stomach, no pain. She didn’t feel drowsy, either.

She looked up at Jia, surprised.

“It isn’t poisoned,” said Jia. “I harbor no personal ill will toward you, Gin. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s true.”

“A test then,” said Gin. “Did I pass?”

“You passed it long ago,” said Jia. “You could have seized me the moment I came down here, defenseless save for a single guard. You could have demanded whatever you liked: an airship to take you away to the far corners of Dara; trusted units to escort you back to Nokida; an audience with Kuni. But you didn’t.”

“It would have been pointless,” said Gin. “That you came down to see me like this means that you were prepared for such contingencies. If I did seize you as a hostage, I would only be confirming my charges as a traitor.”

“A tactician to the last,” said Jia, and the admiration in her voice was genuine. “I doubt I would ever be your match if you weren’t… so proud.”

Gin refilled the cup from the flask, and she drained it again. “It is indeed very good wine, though not the kind of thing I had when I lived in Dimushi. I was an urchin on the streets of the city, and sometimes I was so hungry that I ate the leftovers the wealthy families dumped into feeding troughs for the dogs and pigs. I know that we have never been close, Jia, but the emperor was the only one who gave me a chance and gave me the life I had, and I would never have betrayed him. So tell me why… why this elaborate ruse?”

“We do not know our own hearts as we think we do,” said Jia. “You’re a warrior, Gin, but I thought Dara no longer needed warriors. Kuni’s power may have come from swords, but to rule, he must rely on writing brushes. When a sharp sword is lying around the house with young children around, someone is bound to be hurt.”

“I might not think Prince Timu the best choice for the throne, but I would have acquiesced in the emperor’s decision, no matter what it was.”

“It is precisely because you speak of ‘acquiesce’ that I had to do what I did. In a time of peace, it should never be the place of those who lead armies to say who should or shouldn’t ascend to the throne. That way lie wars, division, madness.”

“I would fight for Timu. My ambition is to serve the House of Dandelion.”

“You might,” said Jia. “But would Phyro? Would Théca Kimo or Puma Yemu? If Phyro raised the banner of rebellion, how many nobles and generals would side with him? And should that day come to pass, would you not rationalize to yourself that you were being loyal to Kuni by taking up the cause of the child who most resembled him in spirit?”

Gin laughed. “So, because your son is weak, you believe it gives you the right to deprive the House of Dandelion of those who fought for it and might fight for it again. That is a deeper betrayal than any plot you think you’ve uncovered.”

Jia didn’t even flinch at this. “I care not for labels like ‘betrayal,’ because my only duty is to the people of Dara. It isn’t for Timu that I do this, though I know you and others will think so. I would have held to the same course even if Phyro were the heir. Especially so, then.”

Gin stared at Jia. “I don’t understand.”

Jia sighed. “When a cruben breaches, he leaves behind trails of mangled fish and seaweed; when a ship traverses a wall of storms, she leaves with broken masts and tattered sails; when an empire rises, it finds itself atop a hill of skulls and bones. Violence has a cost, Gin, and sooner or later, that debt must be repaid. I wanted to ensure that the cost isn’t so high as to cause the cruben to fall back into the sea, for the storm to catch up to the ship, and for the ghosts and vengeful souls to topple the House of Dandelion.”

Gin pondered this. “You distrust all those who wield arms. As long as the House of Dandelion does not monopolize the use of force, you believe the emperor’s heirs cannot sleep soundly at night.”

“Not just Kuni’s heirs, but all the people of Dara,” said Jia. “Kuni has kept all the nobles and generals in check because of their personal loyalty, and perhaps Phyro can keep it for a generation longer. But what of his heirs, and the heirs who inherit the domains held by you, Kimo, Yemu, Carucono, Çakri and others? At some point, the tales of friendship between their parents and grandparents will fade into mere legends, the fire of ambition will grow inflamed, men with command of armies will become restless, and Dara will once again plunge into the old ways of death and blood, when the strong prey upon the weak. The people of Dara deserve better.”

“You think like Mapidéré,” said Gin, “who tried to preserve his empire by taking away weapons from the common people. That plan did not work out so well.”

“That is because he had no system to replace the competition of warfare,” said Jia. “I don’t put my trust in the fragile bonds of personal loyalty forged on the battlefield celebrated in old poems. I want to replace it with obedience to a system of rules and codes, of energy and ambition channeled into a web of roles and duties recorded in books and reified by repetition until they become invisible chains as real as the roads and trade routes that crisscross the seas and bind together the Islands of Dara. It would not matter then that an heir is weak or strong. The people of Dara need a system that will serve them no matter who is emperor.”

“And so you elevate the Moralists and their visions of a society governed by repetitious ritual and well-worn models from the past. You think that if you eliminate all independent military commands and put scholars in charge, at worst they’ll hew to the adage that if ten scholars were to start a rebellion, it would take them three years of argument just to agree on a name for their faction.”

“Events have proven me right. Noda Mi, Doru Solofi, and Théca Kimo did rebel.”

“None of them would have done anything to challenge the throne had you not continuously advised the emperor to reduce their powers, to chip away at their sense of security, and, in some cases, to outright incite rebellion. You forced them into doing what you wanted to see happen.”

“I did nothing more than encourage their natural tendencies, which, given time, would have come to full bloom. No matter how much I may have paved their way, the choice to rebel was ultimately theirs. A wolf can never be an obedient dog, nor a shark a tame porpoise.”

Gin laughed. “A pretty speech to justify entrapment.”

“You think I poisoned the ground; I think I merely drew poison out of it. You think I tipped a bucket; I think I merely made it fill faster. I expect we’ll never agree, as we each only see what we expect to see. I do not regret what I did because I know that somewhere deep down, you and Kuni both know I am right. Kuni is too softhearted to go as far as I did, but he knows it’s better to cauterize a wound now than to let it fester into a disease that his children cannot heal. You know that you’ve been tempted before, and that having resisted such temptation before is no guarantee for the future.”

“You make me regret not listening to a beggar in a white cape a long time ago, who advised me to aid neither the emperor nor the Hegemon, when I still had the chance to carve out my own fate,” Gin said.

Jia looked up sharply at this.

Gin sighed and looked away. “And I’m angry at myself now for remembering that day with regret, which seems to only confirm your way of looking at the world, an ugly, brutal world that I do not want to live in.”

“It is the only world we have,” said Jia. “For the stability of the empire and the security of the people, I’m willing to do anything and let history be my ultimate judge.”

“You win,” said Gin. “I may be a good tactician and fearless of death, but Luan was right. I don’t have the heart for this kind of politics.” She poured from the flask again and drank.

“Have I really won?” Jia asked. Gin waited for more, but Jia seemed lost in thought.

Only after a long while did the empress speak again. “If my husband were to go to war personally, how many men do you think he could command effectively?”

Gin was surprised by the question. After giving it some thought, she said, “Lord Garu would be a good hundred-chief.” Almost unconsciously, she fell back into the familiar forms of address and speech patterns of the old days, when she, Kuni, Cogo, Luan, and Risana had debated strategy by a bonfire on the beaches of Dasu. “If pressed, he might do all right leading a detachment of a thousand if given clear plans and goals. But beyond that, I think he would be more of a liability than an asset. He is not a tactician by nature, and he is far too impulsive and unwilling to make the right kinds of sacrifices to be a good general.”

“What about you? How many men can you lead?”

Gin looked at her contemptuously. “I was the Marshal of Dasu and then the Marshal of Dara. I have sent tens of thousands to their deaths, and I have also killed hundreds of thousands. No matter how large the army, I could wield it as well as I dance with my sword.”

“Then why do you serve him? How can you claim that you will never rebel or do harm to the House of Dandelion when you admit that you think you surpass your lord in skill?”

Gin gazed at Jia calmly. “I never said that. The skill of leading soldiers is different from the skill of governance and rule. I served Lord Garu because he could do what I could not: make Dara a better place for all the boys and girls in the streets of Dimushi I could not save. I have never wavered from that belief.”

Jia sighed. “I sincerely wish we could have been friends. My desire is the same as yours, and yet I know that for Dara to have lasting peace, men and women like you must fade away like the night mist at dawn.”

The two sat for a while more in contemplative silence, and then Gin said, “I’m tired of waiting. Either give me a length of rope or a flask of poisoned wine. I ask only that my daughter—”

“She will not be harmed,” said Jia.

“She may also have an aptitude…” Gin’s face, which for a moment had appeared vulnerable, hardened again. “She will make her own way in life, the same as me. I am ready to fade away as you desire.”

But Jia shook her head. “Having you fade away is only desirable if Dara were at peace. The gods often delight in thwarting our carefully laid plans.”

“The rebellions have not grown out of control,” said Gin. “Even the emperor’s children will be able to handle them, given time.”

“No, there is something else.” From the folds of her sleeves, Jia retrieved the report from Prince Timu and handed it to Gin.

Gin spread it open and read it slowly. When she looked up, her expression was unreadable.

“I ask you to save my son, Gin Mazoti. I ask you to save Dara.”

“Then proclaim me innocent, and confess your plot to the people of Dara,” said Gin. “I will not fight unless my name is cleared.”

For a long time, Jia said nothing. Gin waited.

“I can’t,” Jia said.

“Ah, vanity,” said Gin.

“No,” said Jia. “If I do as you ask, all that I’ve worked for will come to naught. No one will dare to speak against the enfeoffed nobles and their personal armies for generations, and all of Dara will be plagued with war far into the future.”

“I have already named my price,” said Gin. “You must choose.”

News and rumors of the Lyucu invasion quickly spread throughout Dara as refugees fleeing Dasu and Rui struggled onto the shore of the Big Island.

“The barbarians ride on flying elephants that could spit fire!”

“They’re called garinafins and they do more than spit fire. Just looking into their eyes turns you into stone, and then they smash you into smithereens with their eagle-claws and wolf-teeth.”

“Rui fell within five days! Pékyu Tenryo sent the garinafin riders over the Gaing Gulf on city-ships, and just like that, more than fifty airships went poof! Can you believe it? They say five thousand people died, including the governor and his whole family, and not a single barbarian was even injured.”

“I saw a woman who lost all her children in a single fiery blast. Oh gods! The fire just missed her, but she was holding on to the hand of her little girl and that hand is all she has left. She won’t let the charred stump out of her hands. We got her into the boat, but now we have to watch her every hour lest she hang herself….”

“I saw a man whose eyes turned red as fire after the Lyucu killed his parents, wife, and three children in front of him. He went after the Lyucu with the only weapon he had—a shovel—and they struck him so many times with their clubs that there was nothing but a paste of meat and pulverized bone left in the ground after they were done….”

“I saw such horrors as the Lyucu entered my village while I hid inside the overturned fishing boat. They killed everyone they thought was too old or sickly or crippled to make good workers, and then made all the mothers strangle their babies so that they would be free to become concubines for the Lyucu warriors….”

“I was the only one to escape from my hometown because the Lyucu wanted to make an example of it. They competed to see who could toss babies the highest and let them smash against the ground; they made the children pick which of their parents they wanted to keep alive before killing them both anyway; they forced all the rest of us to run into the woods so they could hunt us for sport….”

“Can’t the flying elephants carry the barbarians across the sea to the other islands?”

“Of course they can! And now that the emperor has lost the air base at Mount Kiji, we won’t even be able to replenish the gas in our airships—not that the airships have done much good so far.”

“Can’t Marshal Mazoti do something? They say that the empress has asked her to return to her old position and to defend Dara to redeem her treason.”

“But what can the marshal do? She’s just a mortal, the same as us, but the barbarians fight like evil immortals.”

“May the gods save us.”

“I wonder where they’ve been?”

^{CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE} THE FARSEER’S DEPARTURE

Having wiped up the remnants of the Mi-Solofi rebellion in Tunoa, Prince Phyro, Princess Théra, and Duke Rin Coda returned to a capital in disarray.

After a brief family reunion made somber by the absence of Timu, Kuni left with Rin to discuss the situation in Dara. Jia went to the Temple of Tututika to pray for Timu. And Phyro and Théra each had someone they wanted to visit.

Risana objected as soon as she heard what her son wanted to do.

“Why can’t I go see Auntie Gin?” asked Phyro. “She’s the only one who can rescue Timu!”

“You have to learn to control your emotions,” said Risana. “Think! Gin is now a traitor who has refused to fight for the emperor. If you go see her, it will be seen by everyone as a gesture of doubt and shake the foundation of Imperial authority. That is the last thing we need right now.”

“I hate this.”

“Image is everything in the arts of war and politics,” said Risana. “You ought to know this by now.”

Théra, on the other hand, tracked down Zomi Kidosu, who was staying at the guest complex outside the palace with Princess Aya. The empress had not wanted her to leave Pan while the case against Gin was pending.

The princess had never seen Zomi look so lost. She arranged and rearranged the papers on her desk, trying to appear busy but accomplishing nothing.

“What are you doing?”

Zomi looked up, as if startled to find the princess still there. “I’m taking care of the civil affairs of Géjira remotely while it’s… under Imperial occupation. I’ve created some programs for the queen that the emperor’s generals won’t understand—”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Théra. “Is what you wrote about the queen true?”

Zomi looked away. “Your Highness, I… I don’t… please.”

Théra sighed. Seeing Zomi like this felt wrong, as though she had caught her naked. Is this why Kon Fiji warned his disciples against hero worship? “To admire anyone excessively is to set yourself up for disappointment.”

She had wanted to tell Zomi about her exploits in Tunoa, thinking that the woman would be interested in the magic mirrors. She had wanted to show Zomi that she had changed, had grown. This was not how she wanted them to meet: under clouds of doubt and betrayal.

“Do you have the life you want?” Théra asked. And before Zomi could answer, she left.

Rin Coda hesitated, uncertain what logogram to carve next. He had always been good with words, but now, nothing seemed capable of expressing the sorrow he felt.

The soft block of wax in his hand continued to drip, and eventually, an ungainly, amorphous blob formed on the silk after the line of carefully carved logograms, as chaotic and conflicted as the maelstrom in his own mind.

He sighed and blew out the fire and set the wax block aside.

He carried a small table under the central beam in the room, got up on it, and looped a silk scarf around the beam, tying the ends together.

He put his chin through the silk loop, wrapped the silk once more around his neck so that his head could not be extracted, and tested the loop for strength. It would hold.

He kicked the table away; his body fell a few inches and stopped as the silk loop took his weight; his legs kicked, jerked, and then slowed; the smell of urine and feces filled the room; the sound of muffled struggling stopped.

Jia and Kuni sat in mipa rari, facing each other across a small table. Rin Coda’s unfinished letter lay between them.

“This is your doing,” Kuni said.

Jia said nothing. She was thinking about Otho Krin.

Rin’s suicide ten days ago had led to a massive investigation by Cogo Yelu. He was particularly zealous—no doubt an attempt to clear his own role in the downfall of Gin Mazoti—and he revealed many instances of corruption and complicity, as well as outright fomenting of rebellions by the farseers. Many scapegoats had been found and executed.

“How could we have drifted so far apart?” muttered Kuni. “And yet, you have forced me into keeping your secret for you. If I reveal the truth about Rin’s suicide and your role in all that has happened, the empire will fall apart at the moment when we can least afford it. Rulers, like gods, cannot be seen as making mistakes, and so you have yoked me to this lie that I cannot repudiate.”

Jia bowed her head.

Eventually, Cogo had come to suspect the involvement of Otho Krin, the chatelain. But despite the application of threats and torture, Otho had refused to divulge the empress’s role.

He had died in prison. They said it was suicide. Maybe it was true; maybe not.

Love made one do strange things.

His silence had been valuable. Though Kuni suspected what she had done, Cogo could not gather any proof. Even though Kuni knew the truth, as long he couldn’t prove it, her position was secure.

And eventually, she hoped, he would understand why she had done what she did.

Love made one do strange things.

They sat in silence for a long time. Jia’s shoulders heaved, and tears dropped onto the table.

“I will give him a lavish burial,” muttered Kuni. “Oh Rin, foolish Rin.” He looked at his wife, sorrow infusing every wrinkle in his face. “You can’t even apologize.”

He got up and left.

Jia never lifted her face.

Soto came into the room and draped a blanket around the sitting figure of Jia. She hadn’t moved from her position for hours, not even after the emperor left.

“I know you think I’m a monster,” said Jia.

“I don’t know what to think,” said Soto. “But I am still your friend.”

“Thank you,” Jia whispered. And the two women held hands for a moment in the flickering light of candles.

“I had a dream once,” said Jia. “In it, Lady Rapa spoke to me of the importance of lasting structures and systems, as slow to change as rivers of ice. She spoke to me also of the impermanence of bonds of loyalty and faith, as unstable as flickering tongues of fire.”

“It’s a lazy mind that blames our errors on the gods.”

“Oh, I’m not placing blame. Dreams often just reflect our thoughts in metaphor.”

“Your dream-vision has the allure of simplicity,” said Soto. “But like the models of the philosophers, the real world has a way of being more complicated.”

Jia looked away. “Without dreams and the striving to achieve them, how are we better than the kelp and seaweed that merely drift with the current?”

“Do you regret what you’ve done?”

Jia shook her head. “Everything I did was for the benefit of the people of Dara. It just didn’t work out. Had the Lyucu not arrived, I would have brought peace to the land for generations. I can’t apologize when I don’t think I did anything wrong.”

“But your methods… Jia, I wish you could have chosen a different way. To spill blood should be a last resort, not the first.”

“I have not the charisma of Kuni, who could have perhaps found a way to disarm the enfeoffed nobles over a drinking game; I have not the power of Mata, who could have enforced peace by the sword and cudgel; I have not the craft of Luan Zya, who could have lured the ambitious into traps of more cunning design. But they have not my vision, so I had to use the methods available to me as a woman of the palace: intrigue, plot, provoked rebellions.”

Soto sighed. “I both agree and disagree with you. The lives lost… I do not think you can be free of that debt.”

“I am willing to be judged for my choices. The same as Kuni, as anyone who would wield power.”

Soto nodded. “Then why are you sitting here?”

Jia looked at her. “I am in disgrace; there’s nothing to do.”

“Yet you’re still the Empress of Dara, and the lives of the people you care about are threatened by invaders from the north.”

“I think the days of my meddling in politics have come to an end.”

After a moment of silence, Soto said, “Do you remember going to the shadow puppet shows as a young girl?”

Surprised, Jia nodded.

“The shows would start in the evenings, before the sun had set. And usually the first act would end on some tragedy: The lovers would be divided by jealousy and suspicion; the evil minister would have forced out the loyal general; the faithful maid would have been dismissed by her mistress over a misunderstanding.”

Jia chuckled softly. “And by the time of intermission, night would have arrived. The stars would be out twinkling in the sky, and I thought they had come at the worst moment to catch the show.”

“But there is always a second act,” said Soto. “Always.”

The two women looked at each other. Finally, Jia nodded and squeezed Soto’s hand.

^{CHAPTER FORTY} THE CORRUPTION OF RA OLU

A chill wind blew across the roiling waves of Gaing Gulf. A giant Mingén falcon hovered overhead along with two ravens, one black, one white, and a dove. Meanwhile, a monstrous shark circled through the flickering shadows under the waves. The clouds were limned in a golden light like the scales of a carp, and if one listened closely, the pounding spray seemed to coalesce into the howling of wolves.

The shark, pawi of Tazu, Master of Unpredictable Waters, leapt out of the sea, its toothy grin glinting in the sunlight.

The Mingén falcon, pawi of Kiji, Lord of the Winds, swooped down to let out a challenging cry at the dagger-fanged fish.

- What are you laughing about, Tazu?

- The God of Birds has been driven out of his home by winged barbarians. I think most would find it funny.

- Have you lost all compassion? You laugh now, but they will come for your home on Wolf’s Paw, too.

- I laugh at everything, brother. You laugh at nothing. That is the root of your problem.

The scale-clouds roiled as Tututika, the last born of the gods, interrupted in her clear, musical voice:

- Stop bickering. All of Dara is under threat. All the Islands, all the people, all the gods. We must do something.

The wave-wolves howled as Fithowéo the Warlike joined the discussion:

- Are you suggesting that we go to war against the Lyucu? What of our pact to not directly interfere in the affairs of the mortals?

- The Lyucu aren’t the people of Dara. The pact doesn’t apply.

The great shark showed off its deadly grin again.

- Such sophistry! But what does “the people of Dara” mean? This is not the first time invaders have come to these shores. These islands were inhabited before the coming of the Ano, which was not even that long ago in the eyes of the eternal stars. We didn’t do much to protect those people of Dara from the slaughter, did we?

Since the other pawi looked away, shamefaced, Tazu went on:

- During the Diaspora Wars, some of us fought against them, some of us fought with them, and some of us did both. And it seems all of us ended up preferring the incense and music and sacrificial meals and great temples offered up by the descendants of the Ano more than the rough-hewn woodland shrines of the people whose remnants now live on Tan Adü. Isn’t this but another turn in the eternal wheel of change? Remember, we’re not mortals; their concerns aren’t the same as ours.

The other gods were silent for a while, but eventually the gentle dove of Rufizo spread its wings over the brooding sea.

- The coming of the Ano was a time of bloodshed and widespread death, and you’re right that all of us did things we aren’t proud of during the Diaspora Wars. But we were different then, younger, more like children who did not know the difference between good and evil. Just as the descendants of the original inhabitants of these islands have merged with the Ano to become the people of Dara, we have also changed. We’ve altered the way we dress, the way we speak, the way we fight and debate and love because of the Ano. All of us have walked among them in mortal form and taken them as lovers—

The clouds turned crimson as several of the gods remembered old flames, and Tazu’s shark chuckled, a most unpleasant sound.

—The Ano have changed us with their worship and philosophy and culture as much as we have changed them with our guidance and persuasion. I would hope we have grown in our sense of responsibility.

The shark’s grin was now more like a sneer as he answered:

- You sound like a mortal Moralist, but how do you know that in a thousand years these strangers who call themselves the Lyucu will not also build great temples to us and praise our names and think of themselves as the people of Dara? The spears of the original inhabitants of these islands have rotted away and their bones lie deep in the soil, but the Islands are still here and so are we. I say let them fight as they will and we can go on playing our games with them as before. Doesn’t Kuni Garu always speak of doing interesting things? I think it’s most interesting to watch people kill each other, especially when the Lyucu have these wonderful beasts.

Now came the turn for the Twins of Cocru—stubborn and patient Rapa, the goddess of sleep and rest, and impulsive and volatile Kana, the goddess of death and fire:

- We have shaped the people of Dara—

- Just as the people of Dara have shaped us, my sister. And we’re responsible in part for the crisis facing Dara today.

The black crow of Kana looked at the shark of Tazu, who carelessly flipped in the water, and the white crow of Rapa, who looked away and said nothing.

- We can’t just stand by.

Once again, the Mingén falcon of Kiji swooped over the other pawi.

- The Lyucu worship their own deities. Tazu, you are the jealous sort. Aren’t you worried that if they win, we will be forgotten and fade away?

But the shark was unfazed.

- Among the gods they worship is one they call the All-Father and another they call the Every-Mother; who knows if the All-Father isn’t just another name for our father, Thasoluo? He was called away by Moäno, the King of All Deities, and it might be that he went to other lands and begot other children. The sea is vast and other worlds lay beneath the horizon, as these Lyucu have proven. Would you break the spirit of the promise we made to our mother and go to war against our father’s children from beyond the sea?

The white crow of Rapa screeched angrily at the shark.

- That is pure speculation! We haven’t even met these other gods! You just want more people to die.

- What of it? I thought your twin sister would welcome the prospect. Who says I don’t look out for my siblings?

The black crow cawed.

- Death is my domain. But that doesn’t mean it’s all I care for.

The shark flicked its tail as though wagging a finger.

- I still say we can’t interfere directly, not until we know more about these people and the gods they’ve brought. I do enjoy games, though, and so I will play with these strangers on their magnificent mounts.

The waves howled again like wolves.

- I wish Lutho were with us. He always has the best ideas.

The shark nodded at this.

- Where is that old turtle? I haven’t seen him since the appearance of the city-ships.

None of the gods could recall seeing their storm-braving brother, wisest of the gods.

In this vein, the gods went on debating listlessly; there was no consensus about what to do by the time the gathering broke apart.

“What do you have to say, barbarian of Dara?” asked Pékyu Tenryo. He and his chieftains were seated in the great hall in the Palace of Kriphi, the capital and biggest city on the island of Rui.

All the Lyucu were bedecked in strings of pearls and coral beads seized from the unfortunate inhabitants of the city. Jewelry, vessels made from precious metals, and gold and silver coins were piled all about them as they quaffed bowls of kyoffir and wine taken from the governor’s stores. Young women and a few handsome young men, the sons and daughters and wives of the wealthy inhabitants of Daye, sat in the laps of the chieftains or next to them, giggling and laughing, flirtatiously pouring drink for the chieftains and kissing them as the captives wrapped their arms around their conquerors.

In the middle of the hall knelt Ra Olu, former regent of Dasu, who touched his forehead to the carpet. “This fool begs to know when the Great Pékyu wishes to bring the blessing of his glorious army to the rest of Dara.”

Pékyu Tenryo let out a loud burp and pushed the woman in his lap away—she was Lady Lon, Ra Olu’s wife. Tenryo took particular pleasure in humiliating the conquered nobles of Dasu and Rui with ostentatious displays of dominance of this kind. “Why do you want to know?”

“Planning an invasion of the core islands is a big undertaking, and… perhaps this humble servant can be of assistance.”

“Oh?” Tenryo looked at Ra Olu suspiciously. “Timu tells me every time I see him that the spirit of the nobles and officials of Dara is indomitable and you will never yield to me. Are you telling me he’s wrong?”

Timu and the other nobles and officials who refused to surrender and serve the Lyucu had been laboring with the rest of the commoners in the late autumn fields, gathering feed for the garinafins and herds of long-haired cattle brought by the city-ships, constructing weapons and defensive fortifications for the Lyucu army, and generally being treated as little better than animals by the conquerors. Timu, though frail and bookish, proved to be an inspiration for everyone around him. He bore the lashes from the Lyucu overseers without complaint and kept on reassuring the enslaved population that the emperor’s army was going to arrive any day to drive out the invaders.

Until now, Ra Olu had stuck by his lord. This sudden change in tone was… intriguing.

“Prince Timu is a stubborn man,” said Ra Olu. He gazed at the treasure piled around the Lyucu chieftains—who were also called thanes—and the dishes full of meat and fish in front of them, and the glow of greed in his eyes seemed to take on a life of its own. He swallowed. “But most of the people of Dara are more reasonable.”

“I thought you men of Dara were contemptuous of us, calling us barbarians.” Tenryo deliberately put his arm around Lady Lon and caressed her breasts. “Does it not bother you that your husband seems to show no anger that I have claimed you for my bed every night?”

“Everyone wants to do better,” said Lady Lon, her face flushing crimson. Her gaze and Ra Olu’s met briefly, and she immediately looked away. Curling an arm around Pékyu Tenryo’s neck, she giggled and kissed him. “Who doesn’t want to eat meat and drink wine instead of fighting with peasants for a share of rough sorghum biscuits out of a trough and lapping water from puddles?”

Pékyu Tenryo laughed. The regimen of humiliating these Dara nobles was finally having the intended effect. He had always known these people were soft.

“The Great Pékyu is invincible,” said Ra Olu, touching his forehead to the ground again. “My wife has only shown her wisdom in choosing to serve you; all of us could learn a lesson by emulating her submission, which is the only course in the face of a superior force. But I have been an administrator for this population for far longer than you. Wise as you are, perhaps I can offer ideas that would help.”

“What exactly do you have in mind?”

“Though the heavenly Lyucu army is all-powerful and all of Dara is surely to fall under your sway in no time, yet it is a fact that the people of Dara are many while the warriors of Lyucu are comparatively few. I have observed that many warriors are occupied with the unproductive task of keeping watch over the peasants and nobles, much like cowherds watching over unruly cattle lest they hurt themselves… and every day dozens, even hundreds, of the people of these islands have to be killed in unfortunate incidents of suspected sabotage.

“Would it not be best if you could bring most of your warriors to the battlefield with you instead of having to worry about a possible rebellion at home incited by a few evil-hearted, stubborn Dara nobles?”

“I’m listening.”

“Most of the common people would be willing to serve the Lyucu, though some might be tempted by the lies of the emperor and his hollow promises of a counterinvasion. I propose that we organize the families of Rui and Dasu into units of ten, and each such unit shall elect a deci-chief. The deci-chief is responsible for maintaining a watch over the ten families in his charge, and if anyone within the ten families is found to be a traitor to the Lyucu, every member of the ten families shall be put to death. Since the peasants will now be given oversight by their own elders and nobles, instead of the invad—er, superior Lords of Lyucu, instances of misunderstanding will be reduced and fewer of the valuable slaves will have to be killed.”

“Oh…,” Tenryo mused. “You’re suggesting that the people of Dara watch each other instead of having us watch them.” His eyes began to glow. “This is quite a trick.”

“We can enhance it with other additions,” added Lady Lon. “For example, you can reward those who reveal to you plots of rebellion or anyone who dares to whisper words of dissatisfaction about the Lyucu occup—er—the gentle and generous reign of the Lords of Lyucu by giving them certain privileges.” She blushed again and fed Tenryo a mouthful of wine from her own lips.

“Ha-ha-ha!” Tenryo kissed Lady Lon. “I do not intend to invade the core islands until next spring. The garinafin are tired and skittish after the long journey across the ocean, and they’ll need to recuperate over the winter. It will indeed help for the population here to be pacified before I renew my efforts next year.”

“I will endeavor to help you in whatever way I can,” said Ra Olu. “All I ask is some token of recognition—though all the people of Dara are barbaric beasts, some beasts are better than others, and some quicker to learn.”

“It turns out that the moralistic people of Dara are shameless hypocrites,” said Tenryo. The gathered Lyucu thanes laughed.

“But I confess that your suggestions are pleasing,” Tenryo continued. “Well, if you and your husband implement this plan well, I will surely reward you richly. You may move into the governor’s mansion from the fields tonight, Ra Olu; and Lon, I may even allow you to go back to your husband’s bed one of these nights.”

“The Great Pékyu is a most generous lord,” said Lady Lon and Ra Olu together.

Their eyes met, and none of the thanes noticed the look they shared with each other.

Pékyu Tenryo gave the order that the temples of the gods of Dara and their priests and monks were not to be disturbed. After all, the Lyucu were not barbarians, despite the charges of outraged Dara scholars. They were a pious people also.

Curious Lyucu chieftains and warriors visited the shrines to see what kind of gods the people they’d conquered worshipped.

“Doesn’t this Kiji remind you of Péa, son of the All-Father and Maiden-of-the-Wind, who gave us the gift of the garinafin?”

“That makes sense! Doesn’t the Mingén falcon remind you of a garinafin, just a lot smaller?”

“Maybe the barbarians of Dara didn’t understand the revelations of the All-Father and got their statues wrong?”

The Lyucu chieftains began to make offerings of meat and rendered fat at the altars to Kiji. As far as anyone could tell, the burnt offerings went up into the heavens just like any other offering, and presumably Lord Kiji consumed them.

For days, priests at the Temple of Kiji on the western shore of Lake Arisuso debated the question of whether they should accept such offerings, but in the end, the abbot voted in the affirmative when it was discovered that many chieftains were willing to donate gifts of jewels and gold to the temple.

“Lord Kiji is a compassionate god,” said the abbot piously. “All who wish to be bathed in his light should be allowed to do so.”

He made no mention of the fact that the Lyucu pilgrims prayed to the god as Péa-Kiji; neither did he bring up the fact that a few of the Lyucu thanes had asked that the likeness of a garinafin be added over the shoulder of Lord Kiji’s statue, opposite the depiction of the Mingén falcon, Kiji’s pawi.

Still, a small carving of a garinafin did appear over Lord Kiji’s shoulder, and when the Lyucu came to the temple, the priests who chanted prayers with them called the god “Péa-Kiji.”

- I see that my winged brother has a new look!

- Tazu, I’m not in the mood for any more of your tiresome mockery.

- Who’s mocking? I’m envious! You are back in your home, and you’ve gained so many more worshippers. Now if only the rest of us could get the same treatment.

- This is a complicated situation.

- Sure, sure. But I will note for the occasion that you’re not so gung-ho about going to war against the Lyucu now.

The God of Birds—and now also patron of garinafins, albeit reluctantly—made no reply.

^{CHAPTER FORTY-ONE} THE INTERPRETATION OF A LETTER

There were no bars on the windows, and the floor was covered with soft sitting mats. Embroidered images of snow-covered winter plums hung from the stone walls, brightening the space. A stove kept the room warm as well as the pot of tea hot. The fragrance of incense cleared away any lingering traces of the chill of winter.

But Gin didn’t think her new home was particularly different from the dank cell where she had been kept. She was still a prisoner; if she tried to leave the room, dozens of palace guards would bow to her, their hands on the pommels of their swords.

The emperor handed the sword to Gin.

She accepted it. This was the second time that he had given this sword to her. The first time had been many years ago on a high dais, when she had stood in front of a surprised and skeptical army and told them that they would, one day, defeat the Hegemon of Dara.

It seemed like a dream.

“You agree then?” asked Kuni.

Gin swung the sword through the air a few times, slowly. Kuni did not blink.

“My conditions have not changed,” said Gin. “You will announce my innocence and reveal the plot of the empress against those who helped you to become emperor. You will apologize to all the nobles, including the spirit of Théca Kimo and all who died needlessly. Then you will imprison Jia for the rest of her days, and make Risana the new empress. Only then will I consider the request.”

Hope faded from Kuni’s face. He shook his head.

“I can’t do any of that, Gin. What Jia did… was wrong, but she did prove that Théca was temptable.”

“Who isn’t? If we were all judged by—”

“If I do as you ask, there will be chaos. All faith in Imperial administration will be lost: Every noble will demand concessions for their domains, taking advantage of this error in my judgment; every potential rebel will be emboldened, thinking that the farseers are corruptible; every scholar and governor will lose faith in my authority, realizing that I’m fallible and can be deceived. Dara will never recover from this damage to Imperial authority, and we will have weakened this fragile peace more than any act of treason.”

“You only have yourself to blame for that.”

Kuni closed his eyes. “If we were truly at peace, I would be willing to risk it to right this wrong against you, counting on the passage of time to heal the wound gradually. But we’re not at peace. A greater threat looms over Dara than any we’ve faced before. If Dara cannot stay united before the Lyucu, if the nobles do not fight with me with one heart, if the people doubt my judgment, if the governors and scholars mistrust my hand—then darkness will descend over all the Islands and many more will die, and all we’ve fought for will be lost.”

“So you want me to live with a lie and go to battle for you as a traitor who has been forgiven and fights to redeem her stained name.”

Kuni nodded. “I know it’s unfair. But there is no other course. We are not always in control of our own fates, and sometimes we must live with mistakes—and even beg others to live with them. The roles we play dictate courses of action.”

Kuni knelt down before Gin and touched his forehead to the ground.

For a moment Gin was seized by the desire to step forward and lift him up by the arms, to tell him that she understood, that she would do as he asked. After all that had happened, she still believed that it was sweet and proper for people to die for great lords who recognized their talent.

But then the bitterness of her own humiliation returned. She recalled the moment Cogo had secured her into the boat by the lake like an animal bound for the sacrificial altar, the way Jia had dismissed the bonds of loyalty as fragile and worthless, the way Dafiro Miro had come to try to sneak her away like some embarrassing fugitive.

“What pains me,” said Gin, “is the fact that you cannot deny that at some level, you agree with Jia. That was why you had taken Faça and Rima away from me, years ago, and sent me to Géjira. You also believe that power is always corrupting, and because of that, you wanted to weaken my power base. Suspicion poisoned the bond between us long before today.”

Kuni sighed. “How is it different from you? You declared yourself queen without waiting for me to give you the title, afraid that I might be jealous of your accomplishments. We’re not perfect, and we strive to do the best we can despite our sins.”

“You’re right,” said Gin. She strode over to one of the walls of the room, and, with a forceful thrust, plunged the sword into a crack between two of the stones. Then, with a powerful drive against the handle, broke the sword in half.

Leaving the tip embedded in the wall, she came back and handed the broken sword to Kuni.

“I’d rather break than bend to preserve a lie,” she said. “I’m tired of letting power wield us, Lord Garu. I cannot be your marshal unless you clear my name; you must fight this war on your own.”

Kuni got up, accepted the broken sword, and left silently.

Princess Théra found Zomi Kidosu by the gates of Pan. She was hobbling along with a walking stick and begging for the caravan drivers to give her a ride.

“Advocate Kidosu!” Théra called out from her horse, and pulled to a stop by her.

“I haven’t gone by that title for years, Your Highness,” said Zomi. “I don’t have any titles now.”

“I heard what happened from Father,” said Théra. “You’ve resigned all your posts and asked to be allowed to head back home. Do you really wish to live as a slave of the Lyucu?”

“Then you know I’m a worthless person,” said Zomi. “Do not sully your eyes with my sight. I betrayed my queen in a moment of weakness to preserve my own secret and to give my mother what I hoped was a good life. Without my lies, Prime Minister Yelu would not have sided with the empress, and the marshal would be leading the army against the Lyucu. The marshal is right: Without a foundation of honor, everything else is a mirage. Since Princess Aya is safe, I have awakened from my nightmare and now must head home to be with my mother.”

“What happened to your leg?”

“My harness needs to be replenished with fresh, supple branches from the greenhouses in winter. Since I’ve given up everything acquired with ill-begotten gains, I can no longer afford to buy them.”

“You really are a fool,” said Théra indignantly.

“I beg your pardon?” said Zomi, her face flushed with anger.

“You have a simple need and the resources to fulfill that need, and yet you prefer to feel sorry for yourself, believing that somehow makes you noble.”

“What do you know of—”

“Oh, I don’t know everything you’ve been through, but I recognize the symptoms of your malaise. You once scolded me for lamenting my fate when I had advantages others did not, and you told me that if I did not have the life I wanted, perhaps it was because I had not tried to live as myself at all. I throw these accusations in your face today.”

“I am not in the mood—”

“You made mistakes. So what? Were you not the best student of the greatest strategist of Dara? Did you not impress all the Lords of Dara with your daring and insightful critique of the hollowness of my father’s vision of a meritocracy? Have you not ably assisted a queen with the administration of her realm and accomplished more than countless others your age?

“Yet today you slink away like a wounded puppy instead of pledging all your talent and power to help your lord and yourself in a moment of need? Can you not do more to help those you love by staying at the court, bearing the shame of your disgrace?

“Next year is the Year of the Orchid, your birth year! Have you forgotten that it was the lowly representative of the Hundred Flowers who reminded Fithowéo of his duty to strive and fight against the eternal darkness that is self-doubt?”

Zomi looked up at the princess, and for the first time, she realized that the careful, self-pitying girl of her memory was gone. There was a quality to her that could only be described as regal.

She nodded and held out her hand as the princess helped her onto the horse behind her.

Zomi came to the suite of rooms where Gin was held. Though Zomi no longer had an official position at the court, after she showed the guards the letter written by Princess Théra and signed with her seal, they let her through.

Zomi knelt at the entrance to Gin’s sitting room and waited. The sunlight cast her shadow against the silk screen of the sliding door. There was a pause in the chatter between Gin and Aya inside; then, after a moment, the talk went on.

No one came to the door.

The sun set, and the moon rose. The guards came to ask Zomi if she wished to eat and drink. She shook her head.

As the stars careened through the sky, she thought over her life. She thought of all those who had believed in her and how she had disappointed them all: her mother, Luan, Théra, Gin. She thought of her own boldness and how it was sometimes indistinguishable from arrogance and selfishness. She thought of all the words of the Moralists that she had mocked without understanding the truth they spoke. She cried with utter shame.

The sun rose again, and just as she was about to get up and leave the marshal’s presence forever, the door slid open.

“Come in and have some tea,” said Gin, her voice as mild as the morning breeze.

“Men and women should die for those who recognize their talent,” said Zomi. “I’m sorry.” She felt like that young woman who had first ridden the balloon with Luan Zya years ago: She did not have the words. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

“I know,” said Gin. “But the past is the past, and all we can do is learn from our mistakes. You betrayed me because you believed you had no other choice—but as you have learned, such are the moments when we see our own souls and strive to enlarge them.”

Zomi began to cry. “I have disappointed you. I am more ashamed than there are words in the world.”

“You have had too many successes at too young an age,” said Gin. “But humiliation can be a good teacher as well. I once crawled between the legs of a man and thought I would never again be able to lift my head; yet he taught me the need to play the long game. You have talent, Zomi Kidosu, but you must learn to guide that talent with wisdom, which can only be taught by failures.”

“Please punish me,” said Zomi.

“You have been punished enough,” said Gin. “That is why I left you here for the night by yourself. We are always our own harshest critics.” She bent down to lift her up. “What you need now is forgiveness and the resolve to go into battle against doubt anew.”

“Shameless! Shameless!” Emperor Ragin roared as he stomped through the Great Audience Hall. “We must attack immediately.”

Mün Çakri and Than Carucono focused on reading the letter and made no reply.

“Kuni, you must consider this carefully,” said Risana. “We don’t know how to defeat the garinafin riders, and a rash attack will not benefit Timu but cause needless deaths.”

“But as times goes on, more and more of our airships will have to be grounded without a new source of lift gas. Waiting will only make us weaker,” countered Jia.

“I am most enraged by Ra Olu’s betrayal,” said Kuni. “How could a man who studied the books of Kon Fiji and worked alongside Zato Ruthi be so utterly without shame? I truly was blind when I made him regent of Dasu and then asked him to assist Timu.”

“Rénga, I think it’s more concerning that you may be blinded by concern for the safety of the prince,” said Cogo Yelu.

“What are you talking about?”

“The prime minister is right,” said Zomi Kidosu. “It’s too late to worry about mistakes made in the past; best we focus on how to make the most of what we have.”

Kuni glanced at Zomi suspiciously, not bothering to disguise his distaste for the woman. He had accepted Zomi’s resignation without any regret, believing her character to be suspect after she confessed her stolen pass to the Grand Examination—which, in truth, didn’t bother Kuni much—and recanted her accusation against Gin Mazoti, which did. The only reason she wasn’t punished more was because digging for the truth behind her errors would have created a great scandal for the Imperial family.

“The path you’re advocating is rather convenient for yourself, don’t you think?” asked Kuni.

Zomi’s face flushed, but she refused to back down.

“Even if a knife has injured you in the past, it’s still a good knife if you wield it right.”

Princess Théra had vouched for Zomi and asked for her to be made into one of her personal advisers. With Dara once again in all-out war, Kuni had decided that it was time to give Théra more responsibility, as scholarly objections to the participation of women in political and military affairs had to be temporarily checked in favor of finding talent wherever talent chose to reside. Théra’s role in putting down the rebellion of Tunoa certainly proved that she had some skills in the mechanical arts, and having Zomi, the prized student of the great engineer Luan Zya, assist the princess could be a way to build up a new, untapped base of power for Théra. Thus, Kuni had named Théra a consulting liaison to the engineering academies of Ginpen and Pan, with the charge to research weaponry for Phyro and the generals and to coordinate intelligence analysis with Rin Coda’s former department.

“Father,” Théra whispered, and pulled on the emperor’s sleeves. “Please!”

The emperor sighed and gestured for Zomi to continue.

“Even though Ra Olu has betrayed your trust by acting as an amanuensis for the barbarian king, his desire to please his new master with florid prose may provide us with useful intelligence. In my experience, Ra Olu and Lady Lon are a vain couple who feel the constant need to boast and strut and cannot suffer humiliation—this may explain the ease with which they betrayed you as well as give us an advantage.”

“You speak like an Incentivist,” said Kuni.

“Incentivism has its uses,” said Zomi.

“What useful intelligence have you gathered from this letter then?” asked Risana.

“In an effort to cover the shame of his own betrayal, Olu speaks of Prince Timu as a ‘happy guest.’ But this tells us at least that Prince Timu is not in immediate danger, so you need not act rashly.”

Jia’s face, tense until this point, relaxed slightly.

“And his boast of a strategic imbalance between the two sides is confirmed by our own scouting, which tells us that the Lyucu are confident and their morale is high,” said Cogo. “A frontal assault is not a good idea.”

“But we can’t just wait for them to invade! How will we defend against these aerial beasts, who seem invincible?”

“Perhaps Ra Olu’s letter has unwittingly given us more clues in that regard as well,” said Théra. “We just have to know how to read the letter.”

The emperor paced some more and seemed deep in thought. Zomi and Théra shared an encouraging smile with each other.

“It is the next-to-last sentence that is most odd,” said a thoughtful Cogo Yelu. “I’m not aware of any Classical Ano allusion to a spearman welcoming the sun.”

“Maybe it’s a reference to some barbarian legend,” scoffed the emperor. “Why should he limit himself to Ano allusions now that he serves a different master?”

“No, that’s not it,” said Zomi Kidosu.

Everyone turned to gaze at her. Struggling to hold back her excitement and appear calm, Zomi said, “Ra Olu has always had a contempt for the natives of Dasu, but he fancies himself a good regent and makes an effort to study local phrases and references that he finds colorful and exotic. Sometimes he peppers his speech and writing with them in an effort to appear to be close to the people. The Spearman is the name of a summer constellation recognized by the peasants of Dasu, and the only time it can be seen in the east, right before dawn, is early spring.”

“So Minister Olu may have inadvertently revealed to us the Lyucu’s plan to invade in the spring,” Théra said.

“That gives us some time to prepare,” said the emperor. The way he looked at Zomi Kidosu was now friendlier, and the young woman nodded back in acknowledgment.

“I think there’s even more,” Zomi said. As she continued to speak, her demeanor grew more confident. This reminded her of the experience of deciphering obscure Ano logograms with Luan Zya on those carefree nights riding across Dara in the swaying gondola of Curious Turtle. “The mention of the city-ships tells us that the garinafins are incapable of long-distance flight. I think this means they’re like the long-legged leopards of Écofi, and flight is a matter of enormous exertion that they’re capable of only in short spurts. For transportation across the sea, they need ships.”

“And the reference to hay is also interesting,” said Jia, who was catching on to this method of reading. “It suggests that the garinafins live on grass, not meat.” Her eyes suddenly lit up. “They must be cared for in a similar fashion as cattle. The journey across the sea has weakened the creatures significantly, which is why they need to rest over the winter and put on some weight.” Since Jia’s family had been ranchers in Faça, she knew the habits of ranching quite well.

“But that means the best time to attack is now!” said Kuni. “If we’re making the right inferences from Ra Olu’s careless disclosures, then the Lyucu will never be as weak as they are now, and we should take advantage of this opportunity to strike.”

This seemed reasonable, and Kuni’s advisers agreed.

“We need to come up with a plan to counter the garinafins as soon as possible,” said Than Carucono.

“I’ll prepare the army for an invasion,” said Mün Çakri.

“We should be ready to attack in no more than two months, while it’s still winter,” said Kuni. “Puma Yemu can wrap up his affairs in Arulugi and lead the vanguard.”

The fact that he didn’t name a commander in chief was not missed by anyone. Everyone thought of the marshal, who refused to emerge from her house arrest.

Mün Çakri and Than Carucono looked at each other, and both were just about to volunteer when Jia spoke up.

“You are Timu’s father. The soldiers will be more inspired if you take the lead and act as commander in chief yourself.”

Risana, Phyro, and Théra were all about to object, but Kuni stopped them. “The empress is right. Sometimes we all have to fight our own battles. Maybe this is the only way to restore full faith in the throne after recent… irregularities.”

The panic that had seized all of Dara gradually subsided, now that the Lyucu appeared to be content with only Rui and Dasu, at least for the moment.

The nobles of Dara sent secret detachments to the northern shore of the Big Island to await orders for further deployment, but even after two weeks, there was no announced date for when the emperor’s vanguard would leave the Big Island.

Rumors went around the camps that the emperor’s generals, at a loss without their marshal, were bickering incessantly and could not come to agreement on a suitable plan.

Four women came to visit Gin Mazoti in her suite.

This was a rare sight. The disgraced marshal seldom had visitors these days, as nobles and military commanders wished to avoid the complications of having to explain their association with a traitor who refused to repent.

Captain Dafiro’s eyes widened when he realized who these visitors were, but he kept his silence and simply bowed and stepped aside.

“How may I assist Your Imperial Majesty?” asked Gin. Her tone was respectful, but the tension in the air was as cold as the wintry wind outside the door.

Empress Jia nodded and came into the room; behind her was Consort Risana, and then Princess Théra and Zomi Kidosu.

“The emperor intends to invade Rui,” said Jia. “We come to ask for your help.” She presented a copy of Ra Olu’s letter with both hands. “There is some valuable information in this letter.”

But Gin did not accept it. She turned away from the women. “I am no longer the Marshal of Dara. A broken sword has no business to be thinking of warfare. I’ve been doing nothing but composing poems and sampling the wines Your Imperial Majesty has so generously supplied me with.”

“Mün Çakri and Than Carucono cannot come up with a plan to defeat the beasts,” said Jia.

“And Phyro has been trying to help, but though he’s clever, he is no tactician,” said Risana.

“Planning an invasion of this scale is not like plotting the downfall of a recalcitrant and foolish noble,” said Gin. “It takes time.”

Jia’s face flushed, but she kept her voice even. “Timu must be suffering daily as a prisoner. As a mother, surely you must understand how I feel.”

Gin did not turn around, but her shoulders softened. “Aya has nothing to do with your political games. It is unfair of you to try to manipulate me that way.”

“Is there anything I can say that will not be interpreted as manipulation by you?” asked Jia, heat finally coming into her voice.

Théra broke in, “Auntie Gin, the generals have always relied on your leadership, and it is not their fault that they’ve been put in this position. Please, I know you’ve always cared for the lives of those who follow you. Help us for their sake, if not the sake of my family.”

Gin turned to look at her. The familiar form of address brought to mind happier times, when mistrust and doubt had not crept between her and Kuni’s family. She sighed. “Give me that letter.”

While Gin paced back and forth in the room, the other women sat in géüpa, watching her intently.

“…so these beasts rely on hay and feed… and they require rest…”

The other women looked at each other and smiled, glad to have their own interpretations confirmed by the great marshal.

Gin stopped. “I haven’t been entirely idle—old habits die hard. I’ve been thinking about the beasts’ methods of attack as reported in Timu’s letter and considering countermeasures, but they are simply too massive, tough, and fast for most of our weapons.”

The faces of the women fell.

“This letter does give me some new ideas,” Gin added.

Hope flared on everyone’s face again.

“The key, for me, is this passage near the beginning: ‘each garinafin under the guidance of brave Lyucu warriors.’ He seems to be saying that the garinafins require the riders to be effective.”

“So they’re not quite intelligent enough to attack on their own?” asked Théra. “Is it like the stories of the wars in ancient Écofi, when the Ano were able to defeat the elephant-towers of the natives by aiming for the riders instead of the armored beasts?”

Gin nodded approvingly. “That’s one theory that’s worth testing, in the absence of anything better.”

“It’s easier to strike at the pilots than the mount,” said Risana. “Just as it’s easier to catch the king than all his soldiers.”

“In theory,” said Gin. “But what is really needed, of course, is better intelligence and understanding of the beasts. Knowing the enemy is more than half the battle.”

Everyone nodded. The discussion only highlighted the value of Ra Olu’s letter.

“But the mirror situation is also true,” said Gin. “Much of the initiative during that initial engagement on Dasu was lost due to the Lyucu’s apparent familiarity with our airship tactics and capabilities. They were perfectly prepared for everything our ships could throw at them, so to speak. I do not like to speak poorly of the dead, but I suspect Master Zato Ruthi’s belief in Kon Fiji as a guide in military affairs was at least partly responsible.”

Théra and Zomi both found themselves nodding at this.

Gin continued, “Now that they think they know everything our airships can do, it also gives us an opportunity to surprise them.”

“My mother has an idea along those lines that we wanted your opinion on,” said Théra.

“Oh?”

“It is perhaps an idle thought,” said Jia. “I have never been very knowledgeable about the ways of war. But Théra said I should at least bring it up and see if you could help make it better.”

Gin nodded, gesturing for the empress to continue.

“I grew up as a rancher’s daughter,” said Jia. “And though my interest was in herbs and medicines, I played the same kind of games that children of ranchers everywhere did and perhaps still do.” Her face turned red for some reason, as if what she was about to say was rather embarrassing.

“She had a lot more fun than I did,” said Théra. “While I was cooped up in a palace most of my life, my mother ran around in the fields all day and got into plenty of trouble.”

Gin looked at Jia, who looked regal even in a plain yellow robe instead of her courtly dress, and had a hard time picturing her as a young girl running wild after herds of cattle and sheep.

“Our laborers gathered the manure of cows, sheep, and pigs into pits and fermented it to produce fertilizer that could be sold to the farmers nearby,” said Jia. “Such pits were quite dangerous, as the fermenting manure produced noxious fumes that could be fatal and were very volatile.”

Gin nodded. “The use of dried cow and horse dung as a fuel is well known to every soldier.”

“But you probably didn’t play the same games we did. Some of the more adventurous children and I used to grind up dried dung and place the powder in a sealed jar with water, and let the fumes out through a bamboo tube that could be lit to produce a lamp of sorts. If we let the pressure build up enough, the flame could shoot out quite far, as though the jar were breathing fire. This was quite dangerous, and I knew a boy who was severely injured when one of the jars exploded in his face. The adults forbade us from playing in this manner, and I only brought it up because Théra often begs me to tell her stories about my youth.”

“You can fight fire with fire,” said Théra excitedly. “Just like I fought the mirror cult of the Hegemon with more mirrors.”

Zomi was reminded of the incident from years ago, when she had used fire to chase away fire. Vague plans were forming in her head as images of mechanical components flitted through her mind: pumps, tubes, massive jars…

“You have my attention, Lady Jia.” Gin went on to inquire into the details of the construction of such jars and asked Jia to draw up detailed plans.

They conversed until late into the evening, and Gin provided many ideas that Théra and Zomi recorded on sheets of paper with tiny letters and simplified diagrams.

“We should head back,” said Jia. “Otherwise Kuni will wonder where I am.”

“He never used to worry when I visited the marshal late at night in camp,” said a smiling Risana. “In a time of war, the rules of peace are suspended.”

Gin recalled the times when Risana had come to her to discuss matters of military strategy, long before the seeds of discord. She was reminded again that great ideas could come from anywhere, and hadn’t the Hegemon erred also by ignoring her own ideas during the Chrysanthemum-Dandelion War?

“I have enjoyed your visit, Empress. I apologize if I seemed dismissive at first.” She was going to say Had we conversed like this in the past, perhaps we could have become friends. But she held back. It was too late for that.

Jia bowed to her in jiri. Gin responded with a soldier’s salute.

^{CHAPTER FORTY-TWO} INVASION OF RUI

To the consternation of many Moralist ministers, the final Imperial edict that authorized the secret battle plans drawn up by Mün Çakri, Than Carucono, and Prince Phyro included a final sentence thanking the contributions of Empress Jia, Consort Risana, Princess Théra, and Special Assistant Zomi Kidosu.

While many in the College of Advocates began drafting petitions criticizing the emperor for permitting his household to participate so heavily in affairs of state, several of the women advocates, including the new firoa admitted during the last Grand Examination, celebrated by gathering at the Three-Legged Jug, the place where Zomi Kidosu had first made her name, where they shared drinks and discussed ways to make their own work also more visible.

Puma Yemu, commander of the Dara vanguard, divided the Imperial fleet into small flotillas and ordered them to approach Rui from the south and west in a wide, scattered arc.

“Why is he doing this?” asked Pékyu Tenryo of his gathered thanes in council.

The chieftains offered their opinions.

“Maybe the barbarians of Dara are trying to minimize losses. If they concentrate all their invasion force on one beachhead, a garinafin strike will incinerate the entire army. This way, they hope to land in scattered pockets along the whole shoreline, and at least some detachments will survive.”

“Maybe they are trying to sneak in ships to land spies for sabotage. With so many ships on the sea, it will be hard for us to catch them all.”

“Maybe this is a blockade, which I understand is a common tactic among these maritime savages. But we’re not dependent on trade like them, so this will bother us no more than dolphins dancing in the sea would bother the tusked tiger sleeping on the steppes.”

“Whatever the reason, what can we do about them? Our city-ships are far too cumbersome to be sent after them: It would be like dispatching horrid wolves after gnats.”

“We could wait for them to come closer and hit them with the garinafins.”

“But watching such a long coast day and night with sky-riders will exhaust the mounts after a few days.”

As the debate continued, there were many theories but no firm proposal for a response.

“Loyal Thanes of Lyucu,” a new voice spoke up. “To know the intent of the prey, we must study its spoors.”

The speaker was a young woman about twenty years of age: tall, limber, and powerfully built, with a pale complexion matched by hair so blond that it was practically white. Her name was Vadyu Roatan, though most of the warriors called her “Tanvanaki,” which was short for Tanvanaki-garinafin, or Flash-of-the-Garinafin, due to her skill as a sky-rider and with the slingshot.

“Daughter, what is your counsel?” asked Pékyu Tenryo. Tanvanaki was his favorite daughter, and the only one of his children to come with him on this expedition.

“I have observed the flags flown from those ships with the aid of barbarian airships.” Cries of consternation and outrage erupted from the other thanes. “Why should we not make use of these perverse machines we have captured as long as they are useful? We came here on their ships, did we not? The airships can stay up far longer than my trusty Korva, and those barbarian dirt-diggers can row very fast when sufficiently motivated with the lash. They make excellent scouts.”

Pékyu Tenryo waved for the other thanes to quiet down. “Focus on your explanation, daughter.”

“After gently persuading a few of the captured barbarian officers”—Tanvanaki smiled at this, and the other thanes chuckled in agreement: The barbarians of Dara could not come close to matching Lyucu warriors in their ability to endure torture—“I found out that the ships approaching our islands belong to one Puma Yemu, a crafty commander known for hit-and-run tactics.”

“A coward then!” shouted one of the other thanes.

“It isn’t cowardice to fight with guile,” said Pékyu Tenryo. The face of the thane who had spoken turned red, and he shut up.

“I suspect that he intends to use the small flotillas to harass and raid our coast in an attempt to exhaust our garinafins and warriors and to grind down our morale in preparation for a full-scale counterinvasion.”

Pékyu Tenryo nodded. “Do you have a response?”

“Of course,” said Tanvanaki, her eyes flashing. “The best way to deal with a swarm of buzzing flies is to swat them!”

“Then you are in charge of the Lyucu fleet, Tanvanaki-garinafin,” said Pékyu Tenryo.

Aboard Time’s Arrow, Princess Théra and Zomi Kidosu stood around a tray of sand upon which tiny paper models indicated the positions of the Lyucu and Dara ships in the wine-dark sea between Rui and the Big Island.

While Phyro was on the Big Island helping the generals prepare for the rest of the plan, Théra had asked to be given the fast, sleek Imperial messenger ship for scouting purposes.

“I wish we could get even closer,” said Théra, “close enough to see Timu. Phyro and I used to tease him a lot when we were younger, but he’s a good man. I hope they aren’t treating him too poorly.”

“Kiji will surely protect him, Princess,” Zomi said.

Zomi knew that at least part of the reason Théra had brought them here, so close to the front, was so that both of them could feel closer to their loved ones, trapped on Rui. She was grateful for that—just being physically nearer to her mother made the knives of anxiety twisting in her gut feel slightly better.

“Enough sentiment,” said Théra, and she resolutely shook her head. “What do you think of the Lyucu response?”

Zomi pondered the battlefield map as though contemplating a scroll of Ano logograms or reading a complex engineering schematic. “We were counting on the limited range of the garinafins to leave gaps on the coast, give us more landing spots, but this strategy of using the city-ships as floating islands has multiplied their aerial advantage.”

The Lyucu fleet, which now consisted of both massive city-ships that had brought the invaders as well as smaller vessels captured from Rui and Dasu, had been reorganized by Tanvanaki into independent flotillas of about a dozen ships each. Each flotilla was centered around a single city-ship that acted as a carrier for two or three garinafins, while the smaller Dara vessels served as escorts. Captured airships surveilled the sea and located Puma Yemu’s ships, after which garinafins took off from the city-ships and struck the targets from the sky with deadly fire, and the escort ships then mopped up the wreckage by killing all survivors. Yemu had already lost multiple ships this way.

“I’d say it’s more than just an advantage,” said Théra. “These carrier battle groups have completely dominated the sea south of Rui. Taken separately, the city-ships and the garinafins are each limited and vulnerable, but they complement each other really well when put together this way. It’s as if they’ve built a new kind of war machine.”

Zomi nodded. “It’s a clever use of their existing matériel to achieve a new purpose.” She really enjoyed working for the princess, who thought in a way that matched her own patterns. They understood each other and made each other’s ideas better in a way that reminded her of the carefree days she had spent with Luan Zya in Curious Turtle.

“They must also be doing some incredibly cruel things to make the airship crews and captured Imperial sailors serve them,” mused Théra. “We have to advise Puma Yemu to pull back.”

“But maybe we don’t need to order a full retreat,” said Zomi.

“What do you mean?”

“General Yemu is known for his skill at evasion,” said Zomi. “If he’s careful, he could turn this into an opportunity—”

“—to gather some intelligence,” finished Théra, eyes flashing.

The two shared a knowing smile and clasped each other by the arms.

Puma Yemu’s ships began to retreat from the encroaching carrier battle groups. Wind filled the sails; rowers flexed their muscles; and the sleek hulls cut through the water, scattering in every direction.

Puma Yemu sent out ostentatious kite signals to the Imperial fleet that the captain of any ship found to flee instead of engaging the enemy would be executed. This caused the Imperial ships to behave like jittery water striders: Timidly, they attempted to approach the Lyucu battle groups, but as soon as it appeared that a garinafin was about to launch, they turned around and sped away, sending up kite signals to declare that the enemy had an OVERWHELMING NUMERICAL ADVANTAGE, no doubt an attempt to save the necks of their captains from courts-martial.

Yet they dared not run too far away. When it was clear that the garinafins would not pursue, the ships slowed down, turned around, and began the process of inching back toward the carrier battle group like reluctant children being called home to dinner.

Tanvanaki laughed after the various kite signals used by Puma Yemu’s ships had been deciphered for her by captured Imperial sailors. She ordered the battle groups to give full pursuit, as it was clear that the spirit of the men of Dara had been broken.

As the battle groups moved farther and farther from Rui into open sea, Zomi and Théra tracked their positions carefully on their map. Sometimes Yemu’s ships failed to escape in time, and a few more fell to the fiery breath of the garinafin; sometimes the garinafins had to turn back before running out of energy. With so many separate encounters between Puma Yemu’s ships and the carrier battle groups, Zomi and Théra were finally able to calculate a precise value for the maximum effective strike range of the flying beasts.

Prince Phyro proposed a plan to use underwater boats to attack the garinafin-carriers. Since they were now so far away from shore, the garinafins would not have enough energy to fly to safety if they lost their floating platform.

“This is not a bad idea,” said Théra. “But don’t you realize that if you use the mechanical crubens now, you would be revealing their capabilities to the enemy? The art of war requires withholding information from the enemy as long as possible, and not every victory is worth the pursuit. This is similar to the principle of cüpa, where sometimes it’s better not to capture the enemy’s stones in order to secure a better position for yourself.”

Phyro agreed with Théra’s analysis, but the princess was troubled by the impatience of the young prince. That had always been Phyro’s weakness, and it was apparent that even years of acting as the emperor’s shadow had not cured him of it.

“Puma Yemu has done his part,” declared Princess Théra. “Now it’s up to the others to make use of this dearly bought knowledge.”

Once again Than Carucono peered through the eyes of the great mechanical cruben at the murky underwater scene.

Schools of bright-colored fish flitted across his field of vision from time to time, and once in a while a shark swept past as well. Nine other mechanical crubens followed his, a pod of giant artificial scaled whales plying the trackless deep.

Puma Yemu’s raids to the west were just one part of the plan. The purpose of their harassment was to keep the garinafins from paying attention to the sea to the east of Rui, where a serpentine line of underwater volcanoes dotted the seafloor.

Looking back at the cramped and dim interior of the boat and the sweaty, dirty faces of the skeleton crew, Carucono couldn’t help but compare this trip to the last time he had sailed this route from the Big Island to Rui, more than a decade ago. Back then, he had been headed in the reverse direction as the forces of Dasu prepared for a secret invasion of the Big Island, and the underwater boats had been packed with soldiers buoyed by determination and hope. Today, he was also on a secret mission, but this time the boats were filled with many fewer men, and they were far less certain of the success of their mission.

Navigating the mechanical crubens across the sea in a multiday journey was an arduous process. The submarine boats depended on the underwater volcanoes to provide the heated rocks for the steam engines that powered the energetic tail fins. Even with detailed maps of the locations of the underwater volcanoes, the process was crude and full of danger. Minor deviations in route could lead to missing the next volcano, and the boats were simply too massive for the few men aboard to make much headway as rowers. If they missed the volcanoes, they would have no choice but to surface and launch signal kites and wait for rescuers, which would likely also reveal their location to the enemy and doom them.

And so, during the day, the mechanical crubens relied on the murky illumination from the surface to identify underwater landmarks, canyons, and coral formations. At night, the crew had to rely on dead reckoning, and their hearts were at their throats as they gazed through the portholes for the dim glow of distant volcanoes, like stars in the dark abyss. From time to time, they had to guide the boats close to the surface and poke up breathing tubes to refresh the air, made turbid and heavy by their breathing, before they became light-headed and drowsy.

The night was moonless, the sea, calm.

The Lyucu city-ships, anchored amidst smaller vessels captured from the natives, bobbed in the harbor of Kriphi like resting whales surrounded by skittish seals and dolphins.

The peasants of Dara, after another long day of backbreaking labor under the watchful eyes of their own deci-chiefs and Lyucu guards, were finally allowed to rest. The Lyucu thanes and warriors, in turn, had finally fallen into a drunken slumber after another evening of revelry. In their dreams, they imagined riding on well-rested garinafins who swooped over the grand cities of the heart of Dara, where endless treasure and a population terrified into docility awaited their plunder.

A few miles out to the sea, just beyond the maximum effective range of the garinafins calculated by Princess Théra and her assistant, the waves parted to reveal the horn of a breaching cruben. The head and front of the scaled whale erupted straight out of the water, hung suspended in midair for a moment, and crashed back down.

Behind it, nine other crubens followed suit.

By the time the thunderous noise reached the coast, it was barely audible. A few of the patrolling guards on the decks of the city-ships and in the crow’s nests of the captured Dara vessels turned to gaze into the dark sea, but the faint starlight made it impossible to see anything. The guards blew into their cupped hands to keep their fingers warm against the chill and pulled the fur hats down lower over their brows as they resumed their watch. The noise didn’t particularly worry them. Breaching whales and crubens weren’t exactly rare this far north, away from the busy shipping lanes near the core islands.

Puma Yemu’s navy was still fleeing like terrified mice before the haughty cats played by the garinafin-carrying city-ships, and patrols by airships of the sea near Kriphi harbor had revealed nothing unusual. Unless the people of Dara had invented ways to make their clumsy, slow airships invisible, this would be yet another uneventful night.

Finally assured that the surfacing crubens had not been detected by the patrolling guards onshore, Than Carucono let out a held breath that glowed white in the faint starlight. The air was biting cold and the water frigid enough to kill a person in minutes. However, in some ways, the most dangerous phase of the mission had only begun.

In the dark, the crews fought against the wind and the swells with short oars until they maneuvered the massive crubens into a large circular formation with their heads pointed toward the center. To provide more stability to the bulky vessels—which were not optimized for surface operations—Than ordered the mechanical crubens’ long pectoral fins to be extended from the retracted position used during fast swimming. Then, the crews slowly winched the jaws of the crubens open. The ten boats now resembled a pod of crubens bobbing lazily with impossibly wide yawns.

Piece by piece, the crews brought up their secret cargo from deep within the holds to the jaw-decks. Pontoons made of sheep and cow bladders attached to bamboo poles were dropped into the water surrounded by the crubens and lashed together into a frame, and then thin planks were laid over the frame to form a large floating platform the size of a suspended walking park in airy Müning.

The cruben-men gingerly stepped onto the platform, found it stable, and raised their arms in a gesture of victory.

From the bellies of the crubens, teams of sailors carried up what appeared to be tightly tied bundles of bamboo, each as long as thirty feet and as thick as a tree trunk. After setting their heavy load down in the middle of the platform, the crew cut the ropes tying the bundles together and quickly jumped out of the way as the mass sprung and flexed, like a sleeping cat uncoiling and stretching upon awakening. The bamboo stalks unfolded, extended, stood up, connected to each other… it was like watching the unfurling of a piece of fancy paper craft from Amu, where skilled artists folded smooth sheets into flat packets that, upon release, turned into animals, houses, or the likenesses of famous people; or a sped-up version of the germination, growth, and blossoming of some plant as the stem uncurled from underneath the soil and reached into the heavens.

Soon, the bamboo frames of ten small airships stood on the bobbing platform.

Zomi Kidosu, inspired by the thought of the folding hot-air balloons that Luan Zya had shown her during their travels, had sketched out their original, rough design. After Phyro and Théra understood the implications, they had advocated vociferously for Zomi’s idea to the generals and the emperor. The ingenious mathematicians and scholars of the academies and laboratories of Pan and Ginpen, both private and Imperial-supported, had worked nonstop to devise ways of compressing and folding the frames of the airships until they could be folded up and stored inside the cramped holds of the mechanical crubens.

Next, the crew retrieved bags of lift gas and attached them to the frames. These had been compressed as much as possible to reduce their volume, and they now resembled bamboo-leaf-wrapped rice dumplings where the strings were tied too tight prior to cooking, and the bags bulged everywhere between their lashings. After ensuring that the frames were securely attached to the floating platform, the ropes around the lift gasbags were loosened, and they strained against the bamboo frames, seeking to return to the sky, their natural element.

More cargo was carried out and loaded onto the airships and tied securely to the frames: massive ceramic jars, flexible hose made from animal intestines, heavy bags of a material that the sailors treated very carefully. The gondolas, also broken down into compact pieces that could be put together like a puzzle, were carried out and assembled.

The relatively small size of the crubens meant that there was no room to store the bolts of lacquer-painted silk that usually wrapped over the frame and made up the surface of the airships—this meant that the bamboo-framed, gasbag-equipped airships now resembled animals whose skin and muscle had been made magically transparent, revealing the skeleton and pulsing and pumping organs within. The absence of the silk skin made the airships slower due to drag and more vulnerable to missiles like arrows and bolts that aimed at the lift bags, but considering the Lyucu did not seem to rely on ranged weapons except slingshots firing stones, the loss wasn’t fatal. Moreover, the open bamboo frame meant that the crew was no longer limited to the gondola as a place for staging offensive weaponry. Instead, the crew members could climb all over the bamboo struts like the rigging of a naval ship, and the airships were now capable of dealing with threats coming from every direction.

There was one more advantage provided by stripping the airships down to their skeletons, an advantage Than Carucono counted on for the success of tonight’s mission.

The bamboo frames and the silk gasbags had all been painted black, and the specially trained crews, also dressed entirely in black, attached themselves to various perches on the exposed frame. The airships were ghosts made out of the substance of the night, stealthy and unseen.

Pon Naye, leader of this special airship squadron, saluted Than Carucono. “Admiral, the fire-birds are ready.”

Pon had been among the first women recruited by Gin Mazoti into the air force. An able commander who had once faced down the legendary Hegemon when he soared over the Liru River on a battle kite, Captain Naye had volunteered to lead this expedition.

Naye took off a cloth sack attached to her waist and tossed it at Than, who caught it easily. “If we don’t come back, please bring this back to Pan.”

Than hefted the sack. It was very light. “What is it?”

“The last will and testament of every member of my squadron,” said Naye.

Than Carucono squeezed the bundle tight against his chest. His eyes felt stung in the sea breeze as he said, “I’ll make sure these get delivered to the families if… May Lord Kiji and all the gods of Dara protect you.”

Naye laughed. “People say that airmen are a superstitious lot, but I’ve never been particularly pious. I’ve lived one step away from falling thousands of feet the entire time I’ve been in a uniform, and I’ve never prayed. If the gods of Dara want to fight alongside me, I welcome them. But if they don’t, I know I have what I need.” She patted the slender barrel of the new weapon strapped to the frame next to her.

“Where do you live?” Than asked on an impulse. “I’ll… deliver yours personally.”

“I didn’t leave one,” said Naye. “I’ve never learned to read or write, and talking to the letter writers about what happens after I die just doesn’t… feel right. Besides, there’s no need. I’ve been an airman for more than fifteen years now, and every copper I’ve earned has either been pissed away, gambled away, or given away to lovers. I’m as light as my ship.”

“Don’t you have any family? I’m sure they’d want to know….”

Naye’s face grew somber. “My father died fighting for Emperor Mapidéré, and my mother died of starvation. I had a son once, but I don’t know him because I didn’t want to get married and settle down, so his father raised him somewhere on Dasu.”

“On Dasu,” Than Carucono repeated mechanically. Suddenly it made sense why Naye had volunteered for this mission.

“I haven’t been much of a mother to him,” said Naye. “But if the Lyucu have already killed him and his father, then I’m here to avenge them. And if he’s still alive, I hope someday he’ll hear a story about what happened here today and know that his mother was not an unbrave woman.”

“A good name,” Than Carucono said. “In the end, it’s the only thing we leave behind that matters.”

“Something like that, I guess,” said Naye. “I’m not much good with words, Admiral.”

She whistled to get the attention of the air crews.

“Last check for secure hold…. Loosen the bindings around the gasbags…. Taking off on my command in ten…. Brace! Brace! Brace!… three, two, one, liftoff!”

The crew members near the bottom of the frames, where the airships were tied to the floating platform, swung their short swords in synchrony, and the skeletal airships shot into the night, quickly fading against the darkness of the starry heavens. The platform, which had been raised slightly out of the water by the lift of the airships, dropped back into the water with a dull splash.

Gliding through the night like jetting squids, the skeletal airships approached the city-ships silently.

One of the on-watch Lyucu guards strained his eyes against the dark sky, trying to discern the ghostly figure that he thought he had seen.

Was it a flock of birds? A breeze? Didn’t the stars appear to be obscured for a moment by some shadow?

Abruptly, a great tongue of flame erupted out of the dark sky.

Extending, unfurling, uncurling like the roiling clouds at sunset or the surf at dawn, by the time the tongue of flames reached the guard and caressed him, it was as thick as the massive columns that held up the roof of the palace in Kriphi and almost fifty feet long; the air crackled around it as the stars wavered in the heat.

The tongue retracted, as suddenly as it had flicked out; a charred corpse stood where the guard had been; and the crow’s nest had turned into a flaming pyre.

“Sneak attack! Sneak attack!”

The other guards on the ship and the guards on the other ships cried in alarm, uncertain of the strength and number of enemies involved in the assault. They ran helter-skelter across the decks, searching in every direction. The angle of attack was such that the view of the guards on the other ships had been blocked by the massive sails. It appeared as if firebombs had been lobbed by catapults across the water, but how could a fleet from Dara have arrived without being noticed by the airships or the garinafin-carriers?

Torches were quickly lit and lookouts peered intently into the night. But no ships were visible over the dark sea, and the dock was deserted.

Another flaming tongue shot out, gently licked another ship, and left its main mast in flames.

This time, the lookouts realized that the attack had come from the air. But try as they might, they couldn’t see the Imperial airship that must have launched it. With their bright, lacquered silk surfaces, they ought to have been easily visible by the glow from the burning ships, and even if they weren’t illuminated by firelight, their massive size meant that they would block out chunks of the starry sky.

It was impossible to hide Imperial airships. Yet, somehow, the airships that attacked them now were nowhere to be seen, like ghosts.

Messengers were dispatched to the city of Kriphi to rouse the slumbering thanes and drunken warriors. They’d need to hurry over with Dara slaves to put out the fires if the ships were to be saved.

Another flaming tongue, another scream, another ship bursting into flames.

Four concerted tongues this time, and one of the city-ships was on fire at both bow and stern.

Finally, one of the lookouts was able to catch the source. As a tongue of flames illuminated the dark space around it, the lookout caught a glimpse of something impossible: A warrior of Dara was standing in the air, completely unsupported, and she was wielding the tongue of flames like a long spear.

The lookout, actually a fifty-chief in the Imperial army who had surrendered to the Lyucu and gained their trust by ruthlessly whipping and pushing the enslaved Rui civilians to work harder, was reminded by the hallucinatory vision of the sight of Fithowéo fighting with a spear of flames.

He shuddered. Have the gods of Dara finally decided to intervene?

More scrambling and shouting aboard the ships. Sailors lit bright signal lamps and used curved mirrors to reflect beams of light into the sky, searching, hunting for the phantom Imperial airship.

There it is! The ship was truly spectral. Its thin bamboo skeleton, painted so dark that it seemed to meld into the night, reflected little light. Even the feathered oars that propelled it were dyed black. Clusters of soldiers could be seen lashed to the frame at various stations, wielding the infernal machinery that spewed forth deadly flames.

These flamethrowers, as the irrepressible Prince Phyro dubbed them, had been invented by Zomi Kidosu based on the childish pranks of the empress’s youth.

Drums full of manure had been left fermenting for weeks to build up the deadly, flammable gas; dried manure had been ground into a powder mixed with solid pellets and packed in jars to serve as ammunition. For deployment, a hose was attached to each drum of gas under pressure and then connected to a thin, straight tube that could be wielded like a spear. One end of the tube was then connected to a bellows and jars of pulverized manure. As soldiers pumped the bellows to drive the manure pellets and powder through the hollow tube, a valve was opened on the drum to release the pressurized manure-gas, and the gas-powder mixture was lit by a ring of pilot fire near the free opening of the tube. All this resulted in a powerful fiery jet that incinerated everything in its path.

Beams of light roamed about, probing the dark sky like the panicked antennae of some insect. Other ghost airships were revealed, hovering about the fleet in the harbor like giant moths that augured ill fortune, and spitting deadly flames at the Lyucu ships.

The few archers onshore—mostly surrendered Dara soldiers—shot arrows at the ghost ships. Most fell harmlessly wide, and the few that came close to the women aboard were deflected by skillfully wielded wicker shields.

The skyline of Kriphi lit up as torches came to life and the Lyucu warriors scrambled to respond. The deep rumbling of giant beating wings could be heard over the commotion on the docks: The garinafins and their riders had been roused.

Bright beams from rotating mirrors near the torches focused on the wraithlike airships to prevent them from disappearing into the night. Having lost the cover of stealth, the airships changed their tactics. The oarsmen set the oars aflame so that the Imperial airships now resembled fiery birds or glowing jellyfish whose natural element was the empyrean sea. The fire-limned oars, like poisoned tentacles, set sails aflame as the airships brushed past them and pushed back the men onshore trying to put out the fires.

A loud, piercing screech, a sound that was at once mournful and prideful, echoed through the night. Naye’s heart shuddered as the alien noise probed at the part of her mind whence nightmares came. Her crew and the crews of the other airships stopped shooting flames, and the Lyucu onshore stopped waving their clubs and shooting arrows.

Everyone waited, holding their breath.

The Lyucu warriors onshore exploded into a thunderous cheer as the great shadow of a garinafin swooped up from behind the lights and dove at Naye’s airship.

The beast was so much larger than the airship that it was as if one of the Mingén falcons were diving at a grazing calf. And the Imperial airship, whose burning wings had stopped flapping as though the crew had been frightened out of their wits, drifted helplessly like a hot-air balloon as the garinafin approached.

The pilot of the garinafin, a thin, wiry man about forty years of age, allowed a feral grin to spread across his face. He turned back and shouted for the rest of his crew to hang on tight. The garinafin was going to rip this airy bamboo cage into shreds.

Closer and closer the garinafin came; still, the doomed airship did not move.

The pilot of the garinafin whooped in delight.

The garinafin whipped its wings forward to hover in place as it reared back its neck, ready to incinerate the airship.

Naye’s airship jerked through the air as though an invisible hand was moving it out of the way. The bellows on the airship weren’t just for powering the flamethrowers; through a series of tubes and flared trumpets, they also stored compressed air in containers that could be released through rear-facing openings. Taking a page from the squids that darted through the oceans with jets of water, the engineers of the Imperial Academy had added air jets to the phantom airships as a surprise escape mechanism.

The fiery plume from the garinafin missed most of the airship. Only the very tail section of the airship was set on fire, and a lone, unlucky airman fell from her perch, screaming as she plunged to her death like a burning meteor.

The rest of Naye’s crew scrambled to accomplish two goals. Some climbed over the frame to bring hoses connected to tanks of water to suppress the fire before it got out of control; others turned their flame-spears to aim at the garinafin, which was momentarily stunned after its fire-breath attack and defenseless.

Abruptly, the world lit up as though a volcano had just exploded; jets of fire shot out from multiple locations on the airship, all converging on the garinafin.

In regular combat against other garinafins, the riders would be protected under bulky shelters made out of tough garinafin leather, which would hang like saddlebags from the netting draped across the body of the garinafin. But given that the riders had to be roused in the middle of the night and had never encountered any Dara airships that could breathe fire, they had not bothered with the full suit of armor.

As the marshal had hinted at the women who had come to see her, such arrogance gave the people of Dara an advantage.

As the flaming plumes stroked the body of the garinafin, the sizzle of cooking and the stench of roasted flesh filled the air. Some of the terrified riders managed to scramble over the netting to the safety of the other side of the garinafin like spiders scuttling into the shadows as an explorer approached with a torch, but most could not get out of the way in time and fell, howling and burning, into the frigid sea far below.

The pilot had enough presence of mind to give new commands to his mount, and with strenuous beatings of the massive leathery wings, the garinafin backed up and retreated with the wounded riders hanging on to the netting for dear life.

The crew on Naye’s ship and the other Imperial airships cheered. The fearsome Lyucu warriors were, after all, not invincible.

^{CHAPTER FORTY-THREE} A TASTE OF VICTORY

As Pon Naye directed her phantom fleet to continue to spread fire on the Lyucu ships anchored in the bay, a dozen more garinafins approached the airships but kept their distance. The giant beasts and their riders alike were confused by these new contraptions shooting flames in every direction like burning hedgehogs, so different from the defenseless, slow Imperial airships they had easily dominated in the past.

Since the flamethrowers wielded by Naye’s crews could shoot fire farther and with more sustained force than the natural fire breath of the garinafins, there was a decisive shift in the balance of power. Although garinafin wings and skin were tough, the intense heat generated by the flamethrowers still felt unpleasant to them. As much as the pilots urged them on, the garinafins hung back and warily circled at a safe distance from the airships, unsure what to do.

Meanwhile, ships burned and sank below them. Sailors jumped into the frigid water and attempted to swim to safety. The garinafin riders watched the living hell that was the port of Kriphi helplessly.

But one of the pilots, a young woman with hair so blond that it was almost pure white, was undaunted. Vadyu Roatan, also known as Tanvanaki, daughter of the pékyu, was the leader of this group of garinafin riders, and her mount, a pure-white beast named Korva, was also the largest and wiliest in the herd.

As Tanvanaki surveyed the situation from her mount, she poked the narrow end of her speaking tube against the large bump situated right before her saddle, under which was one of Korva’s vertebrae.

Since the necks of the garinafin were so long, the only practical ways for pilots to communicate with the beasts during flight were to kick at the tough skin at the base of the neck with sharp spurs or to speak through trumpet-shaped tubes made from the hollow ear bones of the garinafin, which allowed voices to be carried into the beasts’ heads through vibrations in the spine.

“Girl,” Tanvanaki said, “we have to try something new.” She stroked the back of her mount’s neck while she explained what she wanted into the speaking tube.

Korva nodded to show that she understood. Then she bellowed and moaned, a deep noise that was akin to the song of crubens and whales. After a moment, the other garinafins answered back in their deep, mournful voices, and their pilots crossed their arms overhead to indicate to Tanvanaki that they understood. The winged beasts began to circle around the airships, carefully keeping just out of the range of the flamethrowers. From time to time, one of them darted in and tried to find an opening to breathe fire at the skeletal airships.

“Watch out,” shouted Captain Pon Naye through a trumpet made out of a bull’s horn that was eerily similar in shape to the one held by the pékyu’s daughter—though of course she was speaking through the narrow end to broadcast her voice to her crew and the other airships. “They’re herding us!”

Indeed, the garinafins appeared to be working in coordinated fashion. Like a wolf pack circling around a herd of sheep, the garinafins’ constant harassment forced the airships to fire repeatedly to defend themselves and to use the air jets to escape from the garinafins’ fire breath. But even though they understood the situation, the airship crews had little choice but to drift gradually closer to each other as the garinafins tightened their encirclement.

Finally, the ten airships were backed into a cluster with their tails bumping into each other while the bows pointed out like the rays of a starburst. The oarsmen retracted their feathered wings and stowed them temporarily. In this formation, although the airships were no longer free to strike at the anchored Lyucu ships and the men onshore, the cluster was also perfectly protected against attacks from every direction. Each airship was also protected by the crossfire of flamethrowers on sister ships to either side, giving the garinafins no opening to take advantage of. The circling garinafins and the cluster of airships had reached a stable, if tense, stalemate.

But Naye couldn’t help but feel that something was wrong. She reminded herself not to be complacent. The Lyucu had shown themselves again and again to be wily opponents. She surveyed the garinafins circling around at a steady pace, their distinct coloration—stripes, speckles, irregular mottled patches, even pure coats—like the patterns on the revolving lanterns of her childhood.

“Conserve your ammunition,” she shouted into the trumpet again. “Don’t fire unless you have to. They may be trying to exhaust our supplies.” But that didn’t make sense. Based on what they had learned about the garinafins in past encounters by Ra Olu and Puma Yemu, the garinafins had less endurance in their fire-breathing ability and would tire out before the airships used up their flamethrowers.

The pattern of garinafins circling around the airships began to repeat: speckled, stripes, pure coat, spotted… Idly, Naye counted them. One, two… ten, eleven. Speckled again, now the stripes, the pure coat… wait! Eleven?

She looked about frantically; then she looked below her: the dark ocean, flickering with the light of burning ships. Her heart sank with dread as she looked up, and her suspicion was confirmed.

She picked up her trumpet to shout out a warning, but it was too late.

While the other garinafins surrounded the airships and kept them occupied, Vadyu Roatan had urged Korva to fly away undetected and fade into the night. After achieving sufficient distance from the maelstrom of action, the Lyucu princess had urged her mount to fly straight up, high above the cluster of airships and encircling garinafins.

This was a direction that, she suspected, Imperial airship captains rarely took notice of due to their ingrained habits. As a result of the history of their evolution and the single source of lift gas in Lake Dako, airships were seldom possessed in large numbers by more than one power, and air-to-air combat was extremely rare. Imperial airships were mainly used to reconnoiter and bombard ground- and sea-based targets, and the few air battles that had occurred in history were slow, ponderous affairs that resembled naval engagements where the opposing sides approached each other in the same plane to exchange missiles and arrows and to attempt boarding. Although Dara strategists understood that the side achieving higher altitude would have a decisive advantage in an aerial battle, such theoretical understanding was never put into practice. Airmen never drilled firing their weapons upward because the airships with their hanging gondolas were designed to attack targets below them or at the same level, but not above them—a direction normally blocked by the opaque silk-draped hulls in any event.

Tanvanaki urged Korva into a fast dive, heading straight for the center of the cluster of airships. By the time Pon Naye realized her error and was about to alert the rest of her squadron to turn their attention above them, Korva and her crew were almost atop the airships.

Tanvanaki squeezed her knees against Korva’s neck, and Korva reared up in the air, halting her dive with massive swipes from her wings; then she lunged forward with her neck and spewed out a plume of flames at the center of the cluster, where the airships were bumping into each other. At the same time, the riders hanging on to the webbing of the great beast let loose with a hail of stones from their slingshots to suppress the return fire from the flamethrowers. A few of the Dara airmen were struck in the head and slumped noiselessly against their harnesses.

But Korva’s tongue of flames stopped just short of the ships’ bamboo frames. Though the airmen cringed, terrified, at the roaring fire and the oppressive heat, the plume eventually fizzed out without setting any of the ships afire.

Pon Naye shouted with joy. The skeletal airships’ unfamiliar shapes must have made it hard to judge distance accurately, and Tanvanaki had brought her mount to a stop just a moment too early. Now the garinafin would have to take a few moments to recharge, giving the Imperial airships the needed time to prepare a defense.

Airmen scrambled over the open lattice framework to bring their flamethrowers to bear on this new threat from above. Without opaque hulls, the airships should be able to hold foes from this direction at bay as well and create a protective barrier of flamethrowers in every direction.

Naye looked at the activity around her, and abruptly, a terrifying realization came to her. Vadyu had not misjudged the distance. The attack from the garinafin had done exactly what it was meant to do.

“No!—” she screamed, but it was too late.

The panicked airmen at the tails of the airships, their hair singed by the heat from the garinafin’s fiery breath, had opened fire with their own flamethrowers without waiting for an order from Pon Naye. The hose man opened the valve to the pressurized manure gas while the bellows operators pumped as if their lives depended on it: From the tails of the ten airships, ten flaming tongues flicked out at the hovering beast like ten frogs aiming for the same fly. Since the flamethrowers had greater range than the garinafins, Korva—or at least her crew—was sure to be severely injured.

But that reaction was precisely what Vadyu had been counting on. The plumes of fire shot upward, but long before reaching their target, they began to curve down, like the arced flight of the dyran falling back into a sunlit sea. Ten flaming tongues struck at ten airships, following graceful parabolic arcs as though they had been aiming at each other.

The flamethrowers were designed to mix the pressurized manure gas with pulverized and pelletized manure, which provided the mass to carry the flames farther than using gas alone. But this also meant that the flames from the flamethrowers were really streams of burning missiles, and missiles were bound by gravity. If the airships attacked upward, the flaming tongues would eventually fall back down to their own level.

The closely packed airships had been tricked into firing upon each other.

Instantly, bamboo frameworks were set aflame, and the screams and howls of the crews, their bodies covered by fire, filled the air. The extent of the fire damage was beyond the ability of water hoses to control; gasbags burst and the ships began to lose altitude.

As panicked crew members untied themselves from their harnesses and tried to escape the burning tails of the airships toward the bows, the airships became unbalanced and began to list and tilt as they lost attitude. Soon, all would plunge into the dark ocean, already littered with the burning wreckage of Lyucu ships.

Naye stared at the hovering figure of the giant, pure-white garinafin and the tiny figure of the pilot on its neck, and her heart was filled with admiration. This woman is a worthy foe, she thought. Though the Lyucu princess had never encountered the flame-throwing ghost airships before, she had devised a plan to defeat them within minutes.

Am I to fail? Will my name be forgotten as whispers into the winter wind?

The burning frames started to crack and fall apart; the airships lost altitude more quickly. The other garinafins closed in and spewed more fire, and some attacked with their claws and teeth. More screams and shouts. The airmen at the flame-throwing stations had either abandoned their posts in a futile attempt to find safety or were standing still, their eyes closed and their arms held over their faces defensively. Some of the crew, realizing that all hope was lost, even untied themselves and jumped, plunging into the dark, frosty water below. If they didn’t drown or freeze to death quickly, they would be captured by the Lyucu and perhaps meet a fate worse than death.

Naye untied herself from the frame, and picked up her speaking trumpet.

“Soldiers of Dara, we are already dead!

“We knew that before we took off this evening. There is no doubt.

“All that remains to be determined is whether the bards and storytellers of these islands will recall our names as bywords for glory or cowardice. Will our parents, brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, and children live as free men and women of Dara or enslaved to the barbaric Lyucu?”

The panicking crew stopped, held on to supports, and listened to this speech, even as their ships disintegrated around them and the garinafins continued their assault.

“Follow my example, sisters!” Naye retied her safety harness around the manure-gas drum of a flamethrower, a massive ceramic jar that was taller than her and many times wider. She nodded to her bellows operators. “It’s time. Do it.”

This was the last surprise in the design of the phantom ships, an option of last resort.

“I cannot demand this of you,” Naye had said to her crews and commanders, before they disappeared into the mechanical crubens for this mission across the sea. “And neither can the emperor, no matter what the ministers and priests say about the sweetness of dying for duty. I may not have studied the Ano Classics, but I know that life is sacred.

“I want to give you this choice because sometimes we who follow the ways of Fithowéo must decide between a terrible fate for one and a terrible fate for many others. A soldier does not always have many choices, but I wanted to give you the choice to live up to an image you want others to remember.”

The bellows operators hesitated only one second before nodding back.

“It’s my duty as captain to go down with the ship,” said Naye. “But I’m afraid I won’t be able to do it this time.”

“We will go down with the ship,” said one of the bellows operators, her voice solemn.

“We will see you soon on the other shore of the River-on-Which-Nothing-Floats,” said another of the bellows operators.

“Perhaps the Hegemon will welcome us,” said Naye, smiling. She waved her hand decisively.

One of the bellows operators unsheathed her short sword and cut the cords tying the drum to the frame of the airship.

A set of bamboo poles had been bent and held in place beneath the drum. Modeled on the design of the catapult that had launched Théca Kimo to safety at his meeting with the emperor, the straightening bamboo poles now launched the drum out of the burning hulk of the airship high into the air. At the top of its flight, just as it was about to begin its fall, a pair of kite wings snapped out of the sides of the drum and turned the fall into a glide. Tied to the drum, Naye manipulated the ropes attached to the wings to aim her flight at one of the garinafins.

The riders on the back of the garinafin, too excited by the sight of the burning, sinking airships, didn’t see this new flying assailant. The garinafin did see, but for it, the tiny winged contraption was like a gnat or mosquito, and it paid the machine no mind. It was only after the flying drum had landed on the back of the garinafin, in the midst of the riders attached to the webbing in various harnesses, that shouts of surprise and alarm arose. A few of the Lyucu riders unstrapped themselves from their harnesses and climbed up the webbing with their bone clubs, ready to finish off this impudent escapee from the burning airships.

As soon as the drum landed, Naye took out a pair of grappling hooks and dug them into the webbing on the back of the garinafin, ensuring that the drum and herself would be securely attached to the back of the beast. As the Lyucu warriors approached gingerly on the heaving, unsteady back of the great beast, and the garinafin curled its serpentine neck so that its antlered head peered over its shoulder and loomed above the Dara captain, Naye laughed.

She ripped off the hose attached to the drum and the safety valve, and stabbed the straight fire spear with its burning pilot light at the end into the drum.

For a second, nothing happened, and then, it was as if a small sun had risen over the back of the garinafin. In an instant, the explosion incinerated Naye, the Lyucu warriors, the pilot, and much of the face of the garinafin.

The drums, besides being filled with manure for generating the flammable gas, had also been packed with sharp stones and iron scraps to increase their deadly potential. As powerful as the bombs were, they would do little against the thick hide of the garinafins unless they happened to explode against soft tissue like eyes and tongues, but the bombs were lethal to the riders and pilots, which was their chief aim.

The gigantic beast, blinded, deafened, and pilotless, howled with rage and pain; it then somersaulted in the air and dove for the other garinafins, breathing fire and brandishing its massive talons.

The rest of the garinafins, unprepared for this sudden turn of events, didn’t get out of the way of their berserk companion in time. Talons slashed, men and women screamed, tongues of fire lashed out, and it was only when five garinafins coordinated their efforts that they were finally able to bash in the skull of the out-of-control beast. Those sky-shadowing wings flapped once more, stopped, and the body plunged hundreds of feet into the burning hulk of a city-ship below, throwing fiery spars and wreckage everywhere like a volcanic explosion.

On the other airships, other Dara captains had followed the lead of Naye, and more tiny aircraft launched into the night air and headed for the great garinafins. Not all of them landed on their targets. A few of the garinafins caught the drums with their jaws, but a moment later, their heads exploded in similarly bright halos. Others were caught by the garinafins’ great claws, and their lower bodies then disappeared in spheres of heat and light. The thunderous explosions, accompanied by the screams of the dying men and women and the crazed howls and moans of injured garinafins, created a fresh hell in the sky.

The pain-crazed beasts, deprived of the guidance of their pilots, lashed out and swerved through the air unpredictably, attacking anything and everything that stood in their way, breathing fire in plume after fiery plume. Surviving garinafin riders were flung from their safety harnesses by the jerky maneuvers, and the blind, rampaging garinafins smashed into ships and incinerated sailors in vast numbers. They crashed into one another, heads snapping, jaws biting, talons slashing, tails whipping, mouths breathing fire, until one or the other finally fell from the sky, lifeless, like a fallen god.

In the end, after most of the garinafins had died, three surviving beasts wrestled for a long time in the air. Evenly matched in strength, none of them could gain a decisive advantage, and they clung to each other as their torn wings made it impossible for any one of them to stay aloft alone. The tangle of leather and flesh and wings and claws and jaws and fiery breath formed by the three beasts in midair resembled a dark cloud full of thunderous roars and flashes of fierce lightning.

Tanvanaki had piloted Korva away from the commotion as soon as she realized what was happening. Struggling to hold back tears of rage and terror, she looked over in the direction of Kriphi and saw a set of foxtails flapping at the top of the flagstaff in front of her father’s Great Tent, lit by bright torches from below.

Pékyu Tenryo had issued the order to retreat.

She couldn’t believe it. Why? Even if we’ve lost most of the garinafins around the city, aren’t all the airships gone?

But then, as she looked over at the walls of the city, she understood. An army from Dara had somehow landed onshore, and they were systematically moving through the camp of the Lyucu like a slow wave rolling through detritus on a beach. From time to time, a tongue of flames shot out from their advancing ranks, setting tents aflame and causing Lyucu warriors and the surrendered soldiers of Dasu who had not gotten out in time to die in an inferno. The Imperial army must have been brought here by the same secret means they had used to bring the airships.

Now, with the complete panic caused by the airship assault, no credible ground or naval defense could be mounted. And with the garinafin force at Kriphi destroyed and the last of the garinafins, her own Korva, almost out of fire breath, there really was no choice but to retreat.

Tanvanaki sighed and put her trumpet against the backbone of Korva again. “Exercise mercy, and then let’s go.”

Korva moaned to show that she understood. She flew at the tangle of fighting garinafins and reared back, shooting the last of her fire breath at them. The beasts, injured and stunned, stopped fighting, and Korva reached out with her claws and gracefully snapped their necks in midair.

Then she turned to the west to follow the retreating ranks of the Lyucu army. Behind her, the hulks of the burning Imperial airships and the dead garinafins fell into the sea, where they joined the sizzling garinafin corpses and the embers of the wreckage of the Lyucu ships.

The first rays of dawn peered over the horizon and lit up this scene of quiet horror.

Than Carucono’s landing at Kriphi shocked all the Lyucu thanes. Though the exact details were still unclear, torture of surrendered Dara soldiers suggested that perhaps two waves of underwater boats were involved, one to carry the phantom airships that acted as shock troops and another holding the main invasion force. Pékyu Tenryo was furious that the full capabilities of such weapons had not been revealed in the past, and he had a hundred surrendered Dara soldiers incinerated publicly by garinafin breath, vowing to treat anyone who dared to withhold valuable military information in the same manner.

Timid whispers by the soldiers that no one had imagined that the mechanical crubens would be used in this manner were ignored.

The garinafin-carrying city-ships and their escorts, which were engaging Puma Yemu’s troops far out at sea, now became the only effective navy left to the Lyucu. Messenger airships from the Lyucu ordered them to return immediately to the western shore of Rui, which was also where the retreating Lyucu army was headed.

As Pékyu Tenryo marched with his army, the enslaved civilians of Rui were forced to move with him, leaving behind only empty villages and warehouses for the invading Imperial army. Children as young as eight and elders as old as eighty-eight were made to march for miles every day, and any who lingered behind were often executed on the spot with a forceful blow to the skull. Young babies were ripped out of their mothers’ arms and tossed to the side of the road and the parents whipped to march on despite their piteous cries.

“Please, please! Mercy!”

But the guards, many of whom were not even Lyucu but surrendered soldiers of Rui and Dasu, were implacable. The former Imperials knew that their fates were now inextricably linked with those of the Lyucu. If the emperor’s forces ultimately prevailed, their prospects as collaborators and spies weren’t favorable. They had no choice but to display even more zeal in their service for their Lyucu masters.

Ra Olu and Lady Lon were especially notable examples. They worked hard at motivating the reluctant civilian population forced to move with the Lyucu army. As the columns of men and women slowed down with exhaustion and hunger in the cold winter air, Ra Olu spread a rumor that hot meals were being prepared up ahead. Excited by the promise of food, the people picked up their pace, only to find out that the turncoat minister had been lying to make them move faster.

“You will all have plenty to eat once we reach Dasu,” Ra Olu said by way of apology, and the refugees only then understood that the plan was for the remaining city-ships to ferry the Lyucu army back across the Gaing Gulf to Dasu, where they’d presumably make a last stand. And the people of Rui would be shipped across as well, like mere cattle to serve their Lyucu masters.

The people cursed Ra Olu and Lady Lon’s names. They gritted their teeth and said nothing in front of the guards, but if the chance ever presented itself, they resolved to tear these two into pieces with their bare hands.

While Than Carucono and his troops searched through the liberated Kriphi for Lyucu spies to interrogate to gather intelligence about the enemy, Zomi Kidosu focused on recovering the carcasses of the dead garinafins.

Some of the bodies had landed on burning city-ships, where they were consumed by the fire and sank with the wreckage of the ships. But others had fallen into the sea, where the water extinguished the fires and preserved them. Although the creatures were massive, the bodies seemed surprisingly light and floated on the water.

Zomi picked out two especially well preserved carcasses and asked to requisition some of the mechanical crubens to haul the bodies back to the Big Island.

“Princess Théra directed me to recover garinafin specimens,” explained Zomi. “Since we’ve not been able to capture any alive, especially not juveniles, these are the best we can do. These carcasses represent vital military intelligence and we must get them back to the Big Island as soon as possible.”

Carucono assented. He had seen how the princess and Zomi had been able to concoct unusual weapons that allowed surprising battlefield tactics, and if the princess thought dead flying beasts were useful, he wasn’t going to argue.

Four mechanical crubens dragged the garinafins back to the Big Island. Long cables were attached to the carcasses and then connected to the mechanical crubens, who dove down to reach the underwater volcanoes for the heated rocks that powered the engines, unwinding the cables behind them like kite strings because the carcasses stayed afloat on the surface. In this manner, the garinafin bodies were slowly “flown” back to the port of Ginpen, where the scholars of old Haan and their colleagues from Pan set about the task of exploring them at the princess’s direction.

Than Carucono ordered messengers dispatched to bring the emperor to Kriphi immediately.

“The emperor must be anxious to see Prince Timu. Once he is here with the rest of the army, morale will be so high that we’ll sweep the Lyucu into the sea with little effort, just as we did with that rebellion by Théca Kimo.”

“I don’t agree with this course of action,” Zomi Kidosu said.

Everyone in the audience hall of the palace of Kriphi turned to look at her. The place still stank of stale milk and rotting food from the Lyucu occupation.

Zomi swallowed. “Something isn’t right here. Though Admiral Carucono’s invasion went according to plan and Captain Naye’s sacrifice was effective, the Lyucu still have close to fifty garinafins. Even with our flamethrowers, the most we dared to hope for was to establish a dug-in position near Kriphi and hold it until more reinforcements arrived. But the Lyucu have continued to retreat to the west, and the garinafins are nowhere to be found.”

“Perhaps the garinafins refuse to fight after witnessing what happened to their peers at the Battle of Kriphi Harbor,” said Carucono. “Or perhaps morale among the Lyucu is so low that Pékyu Tenryo cannot rally his men to fight. That is why the Lyucu are planning to retreat to Dasu.”

Zomi shook her head. “We only know that because a few escaped refugees tell us that Ra Olu suggested this was the plan, but I’m beginning to doubt the Lyucu trust him enough to reveal to him their true plans.”

Carucono was about to reply when the meeting was interrupted by a commotion at the entrance to the audience hall. People were shouting, demanding to see Admiral Carucono.

“What is going on there?” demanded Carucono.

“They claim that two of the prisoners insist on seeing you,” said one of the guards. “They say this cannot wait.”

“Men of Lyucu?” asked Carucono, a bit surprised. So far, interrogating the Lyucu prisoners—most of them the wounded who had been left behind during Pékyu Tenryo’s retreat—had been fruitless. The barbarian warriors either didn’t know the speech of Dara or refused to say anything beyond demanding to die.

Carucono gestured for the guards to let the small group of soldiers and the prisoners in.

Soldiers entered carrying two stretchers. In one of them was a gaunt, bandaged figure who lay very still; in the other was an old man who struggled to sit up as they came in.

“We thought so at first,” responded one of the soldiers escorting the prisoners. “We found the two of them in the sea, almost drowned. Both of them had been chained in the hold of one of the city-ships, but the destruction of the ship had freed them by breaking the bulkhead to which their chains were attached. Though they were dressed in Lyucu clothing, we realized they were in fact men of Dara.”

Carucono approached the stretchers to examine the prisoners. Both of them had long white hair that was tangled and dirty, matched by bushy and tangled white beards. Their frail bodies were covered in the same kind of hides that the Lyucu wore, patchy and full of holes. Through the holes one should see the scars, lesions, and pus-oozing boils that indicated many hours spent shackled in bug-infested cells.

The old man who was struggling to sit up had a hunched back and the pale skin and gray eyes of a native of the Xana homeland, while his companion’s face was the familiar dark shade of Lutho Beach.

As Carucono examined the dark-complexioned man’s face, he gasped. The man’s eyes were empty sockets covered by wrinkled flaps of skin, and though his lips quivered and moved, no sound emerged. But despite the hideous mutilation, Carucono knew the face well.

“Luan Zya!” he cried out.

“Teacher!” Zomi ran up and knelt down next to the stretcher, holding one of the man’s gnarled hands in both of hers. The stick-thin fingers squeezed her hand back, hard.

Still, Luan Zya did not speak.

“Why won’t you talk to me, Teacher?” Zomi asked, hot tears falling from her face.

“They burned his eyes and cut out his tongue,” croaked the old man in the other stretcher.

Most of those present had never seen the legendary prime strategist of Dara. They now stared at this wasted figure on the verge of death, disbelief in their eyes.

Zomi noticed that Luan’s other hand was gripping a sack made from a cow’s bladder. She tried to free it from his hand, but Luan’s fingers held on like talons. She looked questioningly at one of the soldiers carrying the stretcher.

“We found it drifting with him in the sea,” said the soldier. “He wouldn’t let go of it even after we pulled him into the boat.”

“Teacher, you’re safe now,” said Zomi. And slowly, gently, she pried the fingers loose and opened the waterproof sack. She paused. The contents were very familiar to her, though she hadn’t seen the book in years.

“That bag holds something more precious than life for Master Zya,” the old man said, his voice wheezing. “A book of knowledge.”

“And who are you?” asked Than Carucono.

“Oga Kidosu,” said the old man, “a fisherman of Dasu.”

Zomi whipped her head around to stare at him. Though the man’s voice was barely above a hoarse whisper, it reverberated in her head like thunder.

Father.

^{CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR} THE VOYAGE OF LUAN ZYA

The tiny flotilla made up of Lutho’s Luck, Proud Kunikin, and Stone Turtle had been heading north for weeks, having left the last of the pirate isles behind them days earlier. Around them was the endless ocean sparkling in the noonday sun, and schools of dyrans leapt out of the water from time to time, gliding over the waves in graceful arcs.

Eight men aboard Lutho’s Luck, stripped to the waist and covered in sweat, leaned against the horizontal spokes radiating from a central drum to take a break. At the moment, the drum was prevented from spinning by wedges driven into slots in the side. Attached to it was a cable made up of many twisted strands of silk whose other end shot into the sky and disappeared into the distance. Though the cable hung between the sky and the ship in a gentle curve familiar to all kite fliers, it was clearly under great tension.

A person knowledgeable about the sailing arts would have noticed something else odd about Lutho’s Luck: Although there was a light wind coming from the north, instead of tacking against it with sails fully trimmed, the ship was headed directly into the wind with its sails fully extended perpendicular to the ship’s hull. In other words, the sails were acting as air brakes and slowing the ship down as much as possible. As the ship heaved in the choppy sea, sailors scrambled over the deck and rigging, struggling to keep the sails trimmed for this unusual purpose.

In addition, the oarsmen were also hard at work, bracing themselves against the oars to slow the ship down even further. Even so, Lutho’s Luck was plowing ahead through the ocean at a fast clip. Behind it, Proud Kunikin and Stone Turtle tacked zigzag courses and sailed as close to the wind as possible, struggling to keep up. As Lutho’s Luck hesitated at the apex of each swell before dipping down into the trough, it almost seemed about to be lifted out of the sea by whatever was attached at the distant end of the cable.

Captain Thumo of Lutho’s Luck paced the deck anxiously, glancing from time to time at the hourglass next to the large drum. The hourglass had been flipped over four times, indicating the passage of four full hours. He was getting concerned about the fate of the life at the other end of the line.

He stopped at the end of another full walk across the deck, turned abruptly, and was about to give the order to terminate the experiment when everyone stopped at a piercing, shrill noise coming out of the sky.

Fweeeeet!

A metal hoop descended from the sky along the cable, whistling loudly as the breeze passed through its specially shaped rim. Finally, with a sharp clink, it stopped against the drum.

The eight men at the giant winch at the center of the deck of Lutho’s Luck jumped into action. As soon as they braced themselves against the spokes of the hub, another sailor brought out a large mallet and knocked free the wedges keeping the drum in place. For a few seconds, the feet of the eight men slid against the deck as the cable strained against the drum and spun it almost a quarter turn, but the men soon found their footing and stopped the drum dead in its tracks. As the muscles along their thighs and arms bulged and flexed, they pushed hard against the spokes, and, slowly but surely, began to spin the drum the other way and to winch the cable in.

As they worked, they chanted:

A tiny black spot appeared at the far end of the cable. It grew as the men continued to sing their sea shanty and winched the tethered contraption down until it resolved into the figure of a kite, but one that was unlike any that had heretofore been constructed in Dara.

Diamond in shape, the kite measured eighty feet from corner to corner. The frame, constructed from the stoutest bamboo cut from the slopes of Mount Rapa and Mount Kana, supported three layers of wings made of lacquered silk. The rigging system was as complicated as any oceangoing ship’s, and the main cable itself was a thick bundle of silk that cost the lives of millions of silkworms. The triple-decked wings provided enormous lift, allowing the kite to fly higher than any conventional battle kite or airship.

As the men continued to winch the kite down, it soon became apparent that the kite was almost as big as the ship itself. A tiny gondola dangled beneath the enormous triple-wings like a silkworm moth cocoon; such an enormous craft was apparently capable of supporting only a single passenger.

Since the kite-sail was no longer above the cloud cover, where it caught the powerful winds that blew only at that altitude, Lutho’s Luck slowed down, and the sailors and oarsmen finally got back the control of their vessel. Stone Turtle and Proud Kunikin tacked ahead to provide assistance as the kite lost more altitude, eventually splashing down gently in the sea.

A small pinnace was lowered into the water, and the recovery crew rowed over next to the bobbing hulk of the kite. With sharp knives, they cut the gondola free from the kite and heaved it into the boat. Made from hard jujube wood that was then sealed with layers of wax and silk, the cocoonlike gondola was airtight. The anxious crew on the pinnace peered into the glass porthole at one end of the cocoon.

Dimly, they glimpsed the face of Luan Zya, whose eyes were tightly shut, either in deep slumber or already dead.

“Master Zya,” said Captain Thumo, “you should have given the signal to return much earlier!”

Luan Zya, recuperating in his hammock, smiled weakly. His hands and feet, frostbitten, were wrapped in bandages. The effects of the loss of consciousness induced by lack of air were still visible in his sluggish movements.

“Well, the view was so incredible that I kind of didn’t want to return. The pristine ocean stretched endlessly beneath me like a blue mirror, only marred here and there by atolls like dust motes. Even the horizon itself appeared curved, providing further confirmation for Na Moji’s theory that we live upon a vast globe. And the color of the empyrean! It was a hazy purple through which you could see the twinkling of the stars… I imagine that is what the gods and the immortals see.”

Although the cocoon, designed by Luan Zya himself based on the knowledge gathered from several earlier attempts to conquer heights far above that reachable by airships and balloons, had been wrapped in layers of insulation against the frost at such altitudes and had also been equipped with an external balloon to hold extra air for breathing, he had pushed the craft beyond what it was designed to do by ascending higher than he—or any person in recorded history—had ever done.

“Had you waited even a minute longer, you might never have returned! You may wish to see what the immortals see, Master Zya, but you’re still trapped in a mortal body!”

“We are explorers, Captain Thumo. It’s no shame to die while experiencing heights and depths beyond the known limits of human endurance. Before leaving on this journey, I made my peace with the possibility that I would not return.”

“You may be content to die, Master Zya, but not all of us can be so carefree. Sailing with that kite was like walking Fithowéo’s pawi on a leash—it was unclear whether we were flying the kite or the kite was flying us, so powerful was its pull. Several times I almost made the decision to winch you down despite your strict orders to the contrary. Who knew that the winds above the clouds would be so powerful?”

“Indeed.” Luan Zya nodded. “I was already thinking about that! It might be possible to construct ships that rely on kites as sails to move far faster than conventional ships—though there would have to be new ways to build hulls to survive the sustained force and overcome the drag of the water… maybe a way to skim above the waves so that the ships are almost skipping—”

“I will not sail on such a boat,” said Captain Thumo firmly. “I like my ships solidly in the water, thank you kindly.”

Luan Zya laughed. “It’s just a thought. Well, as much as you disapprove of my lust for extremes, my flight did result in valuable information. I believe I have found the cause of failure by all other explorers to the far north.”

“Oh?”

“Riding on a kite like this allows you to see quite far. During the early days of this expedition, remember how I spoke to you of the way the Islands appeared as mere indistinct tan patches set against a blue background from such heights? Mountains, valleys, waves, the spouts of whales and crubens—none of these details were visible. All that was left were large patterns, trends that could not be seen from up close.

“When I lived among the people of Tan Adü, I learned that the ocean was not a featureless expanse, but a tapestry woven with intricate patterns visible only to those whose hearts were still and whose minds had been primed for generations to appreciate its rhythms. The Adüans had detailed maps of the currents that flowed across the ocean, both on the surface and below it, like gilt strands in plain cloth. The currents reflected the forces of nature, of underwater valleys and volcanoes, of winds and rivers, of austral typhoons and boreal storms—their sacred shell-and-twine maps formed the foundation of the detailed maps of underwater volcano ranges that I eventually created.

“What I saw from my cocoon in the sky today reminded me of those maps. The ocean in the north was a pale blue canvas upon which were inscribed a masterpiece of complex patterns: long, flowing arcs like the tentacles of the octopus; intricate curlicues like the swirl of the nautilus; bold, thick strokes of starburst passion that demonstrated the brush painter’s skill and soul. The canvas was tinctured in deep aquamarine and pastel periwinkle, purplish black and salt-pale white—it was a painting the likes of which I had never seen, an abstract seascape drawn by the gods.

“And far in the north, almost at the edge of my vision, was a wall of white. It was like seeing the spray and foam at the top of a line of waves headed for the shore, but at that scale, the spray must have been as high as mountains. Entranced, I stared at that distant wall, and it eventually resolved into individual whorls—dancing, circling, jostling against each other, it was a dance of typhoons, a parade of hurricanes, a celebration of cyclones. And, as the wall was at the limit of my vision, I could not see beyond it.”

“What does that mean?” asked Captain Thumo. “A wall of storms? Were you perhaps seeing the ramparts of the Palace of Tazu?”

Luan Zya shook his head and smiled weakly. “I do not know, Thumo, but I suspect that previous expeditions were… stopped by that wall.”

The captain drew in a sharp intake of breath. “What you really meant to say is that without the benefit of your far sight, those expeditions would have come upon the looming wall of storms with little warning, and the ships would have been torn to shreds. We must stop sailing any farther. This is the edge of the world, beyond which we are not meant to go.”

“No!” Luan Zya’s eyes had taken on a fervent ardor that had been absent from them for years. It was the same look as when he had plotted for the fall of the Xana Empire, for the death of Mapidéré, a look of madness and passion that frightened and also compelled Captain Thumo. “We are to sail into and through it. I must find out what is beyond!”

“But that means certain death!”

“Do you not desire to push beyond your fears to see just how far you can go?” Luan Zya’s voice was gentle but tinged with a trace of disappointment.

Captain Thumo shook his head. “I’ll not demand the crew to undertake such a mission, not even for you, Master Zya. Sailors understand that death dealt by the unpredictable hand of the sea is a part of our profession, but now that we know the nature of danger, to court it deliberately is folly.”

Luan Zya closed his eyes and nodded. “All right, but let’s at least sail closer so we can confirm my guess. If you wish to return once we’ve glimpsed the wall of storms, I won’t object.”

The sails fluttered in the light breeze. Above them, a bright sun gleamed.

Every pair of eyes on the three ships was focused straight ahead; no one said a word.

From west to east, a towering wall of water and roiling clouds blocked the horizon. Made up of powerful cyclones and sinuous twisters dancing, jostling, battling each other like spinning sword dancers, the wall was the very image of primordial chaos devoid of light save for spider cracks of lightning flashing from time to time through the murk. The unceasing rumbling of thunder made the ocean quake, shaking the very deck on which they stood.

“We are gazing upon the very face of Kiji, bringer of lightning, and Tazu, master of typhoons,” said Captain Thumo. He placed his hands piously on his chest and prayed.

“Only in the ancient sagas of the Ano did I read of such a thing,” said Luan Zya, his voice full of awe. “And I had always dismissed the tale of the journey though the Wall of Storms as an allegorical myth. No matter how much we think we know or have seen, the world is still full of wonders undreamed of by mankind.”

All stared at the incredible display of the raw power of nature in dread silence.

Eventually, Thumo broke the silence. “This is as far as I will go, Master Zya. You’ve seen what you came to see. This is a barrier placed by the gods, beyond which none may pass.”

Luan Zya nodded. “Let me go up in my kite. It would be a shame to come so close to the faces of the gods without a kiss.”

“You are mad!”

“I might be. But let me have this pleasure.”

“The kite may pull Lutho’s Luck into the storms.”

“The wind here is still manageable. If you sail south some distance before launching the kite, you should have plenty of room to maneuver in safety. Should you feel you’re unable to overcome the kite’s pull, you may cut the cable before endangering the ship.”

“But what about you?”

“Just as you cannot ask the crew to undertake a journey that you believe will mean certain death, I cannot return from this marvel without having tried to investigate it.”

And so the kite was sent aloft with the dangling cocoon after the ships had sailed some miles south. Soon, the kite was so high in the sky that it disappeared from view. The cable extended up and to the north, bringing Luan Zya closer and closer to the wall of storms.

The force pulling on the cable grew stronger. Lutho’s Luck’s southern progress slowed, and then gradually stopped. It began to drift back to the north. Once again, the wall of roiling water and clouds loomed before the flotilla.

The cable shuddered and the winch groaned; the kite had been caught in the storm. Sailors aboard all the ships watched the vibrating line with equal measures of fascination and terror.

There was still no ring that came whistling down the cable, indicating Luan Zya’s wish to return.

Captain Thumo was a dutiful man. Though he gritted his teeth and glanced at the taut cable and the distant flashes of lightning with dread, he gave an order that was passed to Stone Turtle and Proud Kunikin with flag signals.

The other two ships sailed closer and grappling hooks were tossed across the decks. Soon, the three ships were lashed together in a column, and the oarsmen aboard all three ships leaned into their labor with all their strength.

Like three fish hooked on a single line, the vessels strained against the pull of the kite, trying to hold their position.

Fweeeeet!

The shrill whistle sounded like celestial music to Captain Thumo’s ears. The ring swooped down the line from the slate-gray sky and struck the central drum of the winch with a loud clang. He was about to give the order to start winching the kite back down when the deck lurched beneath his feet and surprised shouting erupted on all three ships.

Captain Thumo looked up and saw that the cable, which had been taut until then, had slackened and was drifting down from the sky. The sudden disappearance of the force that the three ships had been straining against had caused the vessels to careen forward, out of control, with prow bumping into stern, and oars becoming snarled. Thankfully, the damage was slight, and it didn’t take long before the sailors disentangled the ships from each other. Thumo rushed over to the now-useless drum and picked up the signaling ring. There was a fluttering silk ribbon attached to it.

Captain Thumo cursed. He stared at the wall of storms, where each gyrating column of water and air was as tall as a mountain and as thick as a city.

Nothing could survive that.

Thumo closed his eyes in mourning. Though he did not know his famous patron well, he had come to respect and love the gentle old man during this brief voyage. There was a quality of grace to his every word, his every motion, that marked him as a man who did not belong merely to the mortal plane, but was in communion with the divine. He dared to do what none other dared, and even the manner of his death brought him closer to the gods.

With a desolate heart, the captain shook his head and gave the order to trim the sails for the voyage home.

But there was no cheer of joy from the sailors; instead, moans of terror and incoherent screams greeted the captain’s ears.

“What’s the matter?” Thumo shouted. “Master Luan Zya has released us from his mission. We are headed home!”

The sailors pointed behind him, their eyes mirrors of fright and dismay.

Thumo turned to look in the direction they were pointing in and froze.

One of the cyclones in the wall of storms had separated from the rest like a dancer moving away from the pack. Dwarfing even the Tazu whirlpool if the maelstrom were lifted into the air, it headed straight for the ship, a sinuous, gyrating, predatory monster that intended to devour all in its path.

A wall of water as high as the tallest tower in the palace in Pan rose before the cyclone and rushed at the boat like baying hounds before a hunter, a great wave that made tsunamis appear as mere ripples in a pond.

Thumo shouted for his crew to man the sails and the oars, but he already knew that they were doomed.

Luan Zya braced himself against the walls of the cocoon. Cutting himself loose had not been an impulsive decision, but one that he had planned ever since Captain Thumo had stated that he was unwilling to risk the lives of his crew for the unknown. In a way, Luan had been relieved by the refusal—he didn’t want to be responsible for the deaths of others in the pursuit of a goal whose attainment he desired with every fiber of his being but for which he could offer no rational explanation.

That is perhaps also why I have not wanted any post of authority under Kuni, he thought. And why I sought to flee the capital when the emperor asked me to help him continue a revolution with his unexpected, secret choice of an heir.

He had always played the role of adviser, someone whose legacy was tied to the decisions made by others. He would strategize and scheme, but when the moment came to order men to die for his visions, he lacked the necessary conviction of purpose and the willingness to accept the consequences of his decisions.

Better to soar through the sky on a kite, alone. That had always been the role he was more comfortable with. Whatever he decided, the only life he was responsible for was his own.

He peered through the thick glass portholes and gripped the handholds tightly. He was surrounded by magnificent, roiling clouds that formed the spinning walls of the typhoons, each the size of an island, one merging into the next. The howl of the winds and the roar of thunder filled the interior of the cocoon as though he were inside a set of drums being played by the gods.

Ropes connected to pulleys and rigging fed into the cocoon, and by pulling on them he could change the angle and tension in the wings of the kite and direct its flight to some degree. As streaks of water collected over the portholes and blurred his vision, he experienced the illusion that he wasn’t in the sky, but undersea, and the cocoon was a one-man submersible diving through a strange, fantastic ocean.

As he glided into the clouds lit up by flashing lightning bolts, he felt an exhilaration that he had last experienced on that long-ago day when he had dived from the Er-Mé Mountains toward the procession of the tyrant Mapidéré, certain that he was going to die but also certain that he was going to spend the last moments of his life in incandescence.

He would be the first man to fly through a typhoon laced with lightning, the first man to try to pierce the Wall of Storms that blocked the path to the legendary land of the immortals to the north.

Laughing, ululating wildly as though he was again that young man driven by passion and purpose, he pulled hard on the wings of the kite and dove into the heart of the stormy wall.

Then the rumbling of thunder shook the entire cocoon and made his teeth clatter; there was a bright flash that seemed to blot out the entire world; his skin tingled as though it had a separate life; and the last thought he had was: So being struck by lightning feels a bit like being lit on fire.

He woke up. He did not know where he was: in the land of the living or on the farther shore of the River-on-Which-Nothing-Floats.

He could feel the bruises all over himself, but no bones seemed to have been broken. The pain was like a dull knife that poked at the cobwebs in his mind.

I’m not dead.

He felt himself being gently lifted up and then set down, as though the storm clouds had acquired mass and become thick and sluggish.

The thunderous rumbling continued outside. A dark blue light filled the interior of the cocoon.

Am I still flying?

A bright orange shape with black stripes glided across the porthole above him. He marveled at how slow this bird flew—as slow as his thoughts.

What a marvelous bird to fly through such a storm! Is this its native habitat?

He was feeling very light-headed.

The last time he had felt like this was when he had run out of air after the kite ascended to previously unattained heights. He had put the feeling down to fatigue, to simple exhaustion, but now he understood that it was a sign that the cocoon was running out of breathable air.

He hadn’t equipped the cocoon with an air balloon this time because he wasn’t flying for height. Why was he running out of air?

A yellow shape with blue stripes glided across the porthole.

Another bird?

No, the wings are too small.

It’s swimming, not flying.

A fish.

Water. I’m under water.

The thoughts wriggled into his mind with great difficulty, struggling against the dizziness and confusion that filled his brain like the thick mud at the bottom of lotus ponds.

I must get out.

His frantic fingers finally found the latch to the cocoon’s door, squeezed around the handle, and pulled.

The shock of the water flooding in caused him to gasp before he remembered to hold his breath. The cocoon, which was designed to float, had been pushed under the surface by the weight of the wreckage of the kite. He kicked away from it, struggling to find the surface. All around him, stiffened silk pressed down on him. He had to swim away from the cocoon and get around the wings to reach the surface, the air.

His lungs were on fire, and his arms and legs felt weak and heavy. He was too far away from the edge of the kite. He was never going to make it.

He stopped struggling. The heavy robe, worn for warmth, had taken on water and was dragging him down toward the bottom of the ocean.

It would have been nice to see new lands before I die, but every journey has an end.

We come from the Flow, and to the Flow we shall return.

He was about to close his eyes and open his mouth to gulp down the cold water that would end his life when something stirred next to his heart like a struggling animal. Curious, with the last glimmer of consciousness, he released the unknown object from the folds of his robe.

A book emerged. Its pages fluttering like the wings of a bird in slow motion, like the undulating skirt-fin of a cuttlefish, the book swam for the surface, leaving trails of dissolving ink behind it. In the murky underwater light, the pale pages seemed to glow with golden letters.

It was Gitré Üthu, the magic book that had been given him by Lutho, the god who had changed and saved his life more than once.

Luan Zya reached for the book and grabbed onto its spine with the last of his strength; he felt himself being dragged toward the surface.

With a loud splash, he broke through the water. He clung to the frame of the floating kite and gulped air hungrily, much as decades ago he had emerged onto the shores of Tan Adü from his wrecked raft. In the distance, he could see the Wall of Storms, whose constituent typhoons and cyclones still connected the sky with the sea.

But the part of the sea he was in was perfectly calm. The frame of the downed kite creaked as the gentle swells lifted it and set it back down, as though rocking a baby to sleep. He was bathed in bright sunlight, and a warm breeze caressed his face.

A rainbow appeared in the eastern sky, the right end disappearing into the gyrating storms. Realization slowly dawned on him that the Wall of Storms was to his south.

He had somehow traversed it in his kite.

Shivering with pangs of joy, relief, and terror, he heaved the soaked Gitré Üthu out of the water onto the rolling surface of the kite to dry. All the notes he had taken in it over the years had been washed away by the water, and the blank pages seemed both a cleansing of the past, with its intrigues and betrayals, and a promise of the future, terra incognita.

A golden line of text appeared on the still-wet page: You are on your own.

And a moment later, another line: That’s a good thing.

“Thank you, Teacher,” croaked Luan Zya. And then he laughed.

Luan Zya drifted over the endless ocean on his makeshift raft, fabricated out of salvaged parts from the giant kite. He lashed the bamboo poles in the frame together to provide a base and then built a tent over it with pieces of silk to shelter himself from the sun and the rain. He fashioned a crude sail and mast out of more bamboo and silk, but the strong current that gripped the raft meant that he had only very limited control over the path of his craft. The cocoon, still attached to the kite, drifted alongside the raft like a buoy.

Day after day, the current, like a mighty river, ran west toward the setting sun. To his left was the Wall of Storms, a constant companion on the horizon. To his right was the open ocean, and he wondered what lands lay beneath the horizon, lands that might be inhabited by immortals or other beings who created the exotic artifacts that he had seen. Schools of dyran, trailing their rainbow-sheened tails, glided just above the water, while crubens and whales breached and spouted in the distance from time to time. He whispered his prayers to the scaled sovereigns of the sea in the tongues of Dara and of Tan Adü, whose inhabitants seemed to have a special relationship with the creatures. When he was hungry, he fished with string torn from his robe and a hook made out of the bronze clip for his hair bun. When he was thirsty, he drank the rainwater collected on top of his tent—and it rained nearly every day.

He wondered if he might soon reach the location of the sunken continent that was the fabled homeland of the Ano. Would he see the tops of mountains peeking out of the waves, the last atolls of a once-great civilization? Would he pass, unknown, over the great cities of myth and legend like an airship whose view was obscured by thick clouds?

From time to time, the typhoons and cyclones that made up the Wall of Storms would part and reveal a narrow opening, like a channel between two landmasses. These calm valleys between storm-mountains sometimes lasted for hours or even days before the Wall closed up again.

Luan speculated that if one could discern the pattern in their movements, it might be possible to sail through the Wall safely. Once in a while, one of the cyclones left its place in the Wall and wandered erratically over the open sea, causing Luan’s heart to leap into his throat with concern that it might be headed for his raft. Luckily, the gyrating twisters seemed to always steer clear of his course, but he wondered if other travelers who had come this way had been as fortunate. After all, he knew of no man who had seen the Wall and returned to Dara to tell of it save for a few cryptic references in ancient sagas. Perhaps the Wall had its own ideas about who it would let through and who it would allow to depart its vicinity unmolested.

Lacking other ways of occupying his time, Luan Zya began to write in his book. One of the fish he caught, a young marlin, had just eaten a meal of squid. After gutting the marlin, he took out the half-digested squids and squeezed out the dark liquid in sacs between the gills to use as ink. For a pen, he used the snout of the marlin. He recorded the new fishes he caught and sketched the movements of the components of the Wall; he composed poetry and spoke to Gitré Üthu of his thoughts like an intimate friend.

No more glowing letters appeared in Gitré Üthu after that first day. Luan was used to such unexplained long absences from his immortal benefactor, and he did not cry out for divine intervention—a teacher could not always watch over his students, after all.

But there was a deeper fear that he did not even want to admit to himself. What if the gods of Dara were limited to Dara and had no influence beyond the Wall of Storms?

He focused on mapping the Wall of Storms, doing his best to judge distance and direction by the shape of shadows and dead reckoning. Sometimes the pages he wrote on still held faint traces of his old notes, and he smiled as he remembered what a different man he had been when he had written those notes, when overthrowing Mapidéré had appeared as a task more important than any other in the world.

Killing the emperor was easy. Building a world that is more just and persuading those in power to exercise it wisely have been far harder.

After a few weeks, the Wall of Storms curved away to the south, but the current Luan Zya was riding on continued west. It appeared that the Wall formed a barrier all around the Islands, perhaps another consequence of Daraméa’s tears, which had formed the Islands of Dara. Luan knelt down on the raft and bowed to the Wall. Though it was violent, unpredictable, a force of nature that could not be comprehended, it had come to symbolize for Luan a final connection to home. Unbidden tears flowed down his face.

The Wall of Storms disappeared behind the kite-raft. His umbilical cord cut, Luan Zya was now alone at sea, truly adrift and away from home.

After a few more weeks, the current shifted to the south.

The stars appearing at night began to change, turning into constellations more familiar to Luan Zya. He was to the west of the Islands of Dara now, and as he lay on his raft at night, gazing up at the stars, he wondered what his friends, Cogo, Gin, Kuni, Risana… were thinking and doing. He hoped that Gin would finally take his advice to heart and give up her pride and the yearning for ostentatious displays of honor and glory.

And then what? Would you have her come with you on this fool’s errand, to brush by death only to drift over the endless sea, subsisting on rainwater and fish foolish enough to be caught?

He tried to imagine Gin by his side, living the life he was now living, and the sight brought forth mirthful chuckles. The very idea was preposterous.

She has her own path in life, and having her give up the title and power of being a queen—an accomplishment that she has striven for all her life—would depress her as much as giving up learning, studying, wandering, and exploring would depress me.

Gin was like fire, and he was like water. They each had their own natures and characters, and what was right for one wasn’t right for the other.

As the weeks went by, the patterns in the sky continued to change. Now Luan Zya spent each night charting the new stars. He could feel the weather changing as well, the sun rising higher at noon, the temperature growing warmer, more like the climate of Tan Adü or even hotter. He made up new constellations and gave them names, some serious, some whimsical: the General, the Loving Mother, the Diving Cruben, the Blossoming Dandelion, a Dish of Spicy Dasu Raw Fish…

The fish he caught now were of different species, some unknown to him. Not all of them were fit to eat. Some had sand in their bellies that probably helped the fish grind up their food, but cleaning such fish was a tedious chore. Some had flesh so filled with tiny bones that it was impossible to eat them without fire to soften the spikes, and others left his stomach in painful knots and he had to vomit up what he had eaten. One even caused him to become light-headed and to lose feelings in his limbs. By the time he woke up, weak and dehydrated, he wasn’t sure how many days had passed.

He vowed to be more careful, and meticulously painted pictures of the fishes, labeling their patterns with colors and noting their tastes and effects when consumed. He wasn’t sure if these notes he wrote would ever be read, but he had to feel like he was doing something useful to keep sane.

Day after day, week after week, the sun grew brighter, hotter, and more merciless. The raw, salty water of the ocean made him itch all over, and his skin began to blister and ooze pus. Rain stopped, and he was forced to drink his own urine and to suck out the moisture from the organs and flesh of the fish to slake his thirst.

How many days had it been since it last rained? How many days had he been drifting? Was he still heading south or had the current turned east? In his sun-induced delirium, he was no longer sure of the answers to any of these questions. He lacked the energy to even crawl out of the stuffy shelter of the tent, to make the effort to catch fish and obtain sustenance. He knew he had to get up and fight for his life, but he just couldn’t summon the strength.

Let me die, he thought. Let me die.

Funny. He had not given up when it had seemed that the entire Xana Empire had been hunting him; he had not given up when he had tried to conquer the Imperial Palace in Pan with just a few dozen men behind him and Duke Kuni Garu by his side; he had not given up when the Hegemon’s might had seemed impossible to overcome, when his lord had possessed but a single isle and needed to challenge the strength of all the rest of Dara—yet here he was, asking for the peace of death, too tired and hungry and thirsty to continue the basic struggle to stay alive.

What courage it took for the starving and the poor to continue the mere act of existence, of survival, of endurance. Such quiet acts of heroism were not celebrated, and yet they made up the foundation of civilization, far more than all the honorable sentiments of the Ano sages and the pretty words of the nobles.

He drifted off to sleep, thinking that he would not wake up again.

But he did wake up. He had fallen asleep at the edge of the raft, with his head partly extended over the sea. Now something bobbing in the water was bumping against his face. He looked, trying to get his blurry vision to focus: coconuts.

He seized them with shaking hands and fetched as many as he could out of the water and piled them onto the raft, his thick, stone-dry tongue almost choking him as he imagined the delicious, refreshing liquid inside.

But then he realized that he had no tools with which to open them.

The small bone writing knife that he carried—really more a decorative piece of jewelry—was suitable for carving raw fish but was useless against the hard shell of the coconut. He looked around frantically for a nail, a hammer, a machete, or even a large rock, knowing that he didn’t possess any of these things. In despair, he picked up a coconut and banged it against the bamboo frame of the raft, knowing the futility of the act. He was separated from the lifesaving water by only a shell thinner than the palm of his hand, and yet such a shell seemed at this moment to be even more impenetrable than the Wall of Storms.

He broke down then and called for the gods to help him. He had not been in the habit of praying to them in his maturity, believing that the gods preferred to intervene as little as possible. But now he begged and pleaded for them to give him something, anything, to save his life. He asked for wise Lutho, for graceful Tututika, for warlike Fithowéo, for compassionate Rufizo, for fierce Kana and deliberate Rapa, for proud Kiji, and even for unpredictable Tazu—if only the shark-toothed god would end his life and thus his torment….

But the gods did not answer, as he had known they would not.

They were not present here in the wild ocean beyond the Wall of Storms. He was all alone, more alone than any man of Dara had ever been.

He collapsed at the edge of the raft and howled, a sound that was not a cry of sorrow, but something more primal, an urge connected to the first noise made by all of us as we come into this world from our mothers’ wombs. His lips and tongue were so parched that all he could do was to moan and howl incoherently, unable to form the syllables that he no longer needed.

If he were less delirious, the noises he made might have reminded him of the song of whales and crubens.

Eventually, the noises grew fainter and then stopped.

The raft almost capsized as the sea exploded near him.

He opened his eyes, sad that he was still alive, still suffering.

A great cruben, the sovereign of the seas, surfaced barely a few dozen feet from the raft. It bobbed in the sea like a living island, and even in his near-death state, Luan Zya was awed by the magnificence of the animal.

The cruben sang, and the sound seemed to cause the bones in Luan Zya’s body to vibrate in sympathy. He shivered. What was this lord of the ocean going to do?

Splash. Plop. Splash.

Three smaller creatures surfaced right against the edge of the raft, between Luan Zya and the hulk of the cruben. Measuring no longer than Luan Zya himself was tall, the scale-covered animals, miniature versions of the great cruben, gazed up at Luan Zya with curious eyes, the silvery scales on their backs shimmering in the bright sun. As Luan Zya gazed at the baby crubens, astonished, they spouted one after the other through their blowholes, and the sprays of mist drenched Luan Zya’s face.

As Luan Zya wiped his eyes so he could see again, he could hear the rumbling laughter of the great cruben.

The baby crubens raised themselves out of the water, swaying back and forth on their tails, and chirped at him. The single horns on their foreheads, each only about the length of Luan Zya’s forearm, waved through the air like short swords. One of them bent and pointed the horn at the pile of coconuts on the raft.

Dumbfounded, Luan Zya picked up one of the coconuts and crawled over to the edge of the raft, and as the baby crubens backed up, chirping excitedly, he dropped it into the water.

The baby crubens dove out of sight; the great cruben remained drifting not too far away, the gentle motion of its fins causing slow waves to beat against the raft.

Then the water exploded as one of the baby crubens shot up from the depths and struck the coconut with its horn. The coconut sprang into the air, rising some ten, fifteen yards before falling back down, but just as it was about to hit the surface, a second baby cruben surfaced and struck it with its horn as well. The coconut arced away from the raft in a long, graceful flight, only to be struck by the third baby cruben as it leapt out of the sea, and the coconut flew at Luan Zya, who grabbed it with both hands more out of instinct than calculation.

Warm, fragrant juice gushed from three holes in the shell, and Luan Zya sealed his lips around them, hungrily gulping down the lifesaving liquid.

The baby crubens played the game with Luan Zya for another quarter of an hour, opening a half-dozen more coconuts for him to drink his fill.

“Thank you.” Luan Zya knelt on the edge of the raft and touched his forehead to the water.

The baby crubens bobbed up and down in the water, squeaking and chirping. Then, with a long and low moan, the great cruben began to swim away, its giant tail slapping against the surface thunderously. The baby crubens followed their parent like three reef rocks being towed by a moving island until the pod finally disappeared from sight.

Luan Zya felt the wetness on his face. He wiped his eyes and looked up: It had begun to rain.

The presence of coconuts suggested that land was nearby. Luan Zya strained for signs of it. He wished that he had some way of raising himself into the air: a kite, a balloon, a small airship.

One especially scalding noon, he looked south and saw a sight that made his heart stop for a beat. In the shimmering air just above the horizon, he could make out, just barely, a city with tall towers and gleaming domes, and there seemed to be streets filled with the wriggling motion of people and vehicles.

He fought to leave the current, tacking and pulling his sail this way and that, rowing through the water with broken spars from the kite, even considering jumping into the water to make a desperate swim for it. But the current was too strong and the kite-raft barely deviated from its course.

He jumped and shouted, wishing that he had a signaling rocket to draw the attention of the distant inhabitants of this strange country.

Fire, he thought desperately. He had never wanted anything as much as he wanted fire at that moment.

The city wavered, and then, vanished.

He stood on the unsteady surface of the raft and looked at the empty horizon, confused and angry. He had seen the city with his own eyes, but where had it gone?

A moment’s reflection made him realize that he had likely been fooled by a Tututika’s Impression. These were mirages seen sometimes in deserts and over the sea, when the image of a distant object below the horizon was reflected by a trick of air and light to appear in the vision of weary travelers. It was an illusion, but there was a real source, a source that lay just below the horizon.

If only he could get high enough or send a signal.

He gazed up at the sun, and then again at the distant horizon. Light rays had been bent to give him a glimpse of land that lay just out of reach.

What could bend light?

He recalled the Curved Mirrors invented by his father that had kept the shores of Haan safe from Mapidéré’s invading fleets using nothing but the power of the sun. An idea took shape in his mind.

Half stumbling, half crawling, he made his way over to the cocoon of the kite, which he had dragged out of the water some time ago so that the two halves, like the shell of a split nut, could be used to store fresh water.

He pried the glass loose from one of the portholes and looked at it. Circular in shape, it was flat and clear.

Picking up a handful of coarse sand scraped out of the belly of a fish he was drying on the raft, he scattered it over the surface of the glass. Then, dipping a piece of rough dogfish skin in the sea to wet it, he began to polish the glass, feeling and hearing the satisfying sound of glass being ground away. He turned it a quarter of a circle in his hands and continued to grind.

He worked without stop, taking a break only now and then to eat and drink. The edge of the disk of glass in his hand gradually grew thinner and the surfaces took on a convex shape. Over time, he shifted from rough sand to fine sand, and then to using just the dogfish skin. The flat disk gradually transformed into a lens under his insistent motion.

After a few days of this laborious work, he was finally satisfied as he glanced at the magnified, distorted world through the lens. He broke one of the bamboo spars he had been using as an oar into small, short sticks and piled them on a platform made from one half of the hard jujube cocoon, which would no longer hold water because the porthole had been pried out. Stuffing some dried coconut husks under the bamboo sticks as kindling, he was ready to light a fire.

He held up his lens and moved it until the projected image of the sun shrank into a tiny dot on the kindling. He waited. After a few seconds, smoke rose from the pile.

He whooped with delight, and carefully, keeping his hands steady, he waited until the smoke grew thick and a tiny tongue of flame flickered to life. Putting the lens aside, he bent down and blew on the flame gently, trying to keep it alive, to nurture it.

After a while, when the fire was big enough, he tossed torn strips of silk onto the flames. The silk burned slowly and generated a lot of smoke. He hoped that he was still close enough to land that the smoke would draw the attention of fishermen and merchants, and perhaps someone would come to investigate in a boat.

He kept the smoke signal alive for most of the day, using the fire to cook fish when he was hungry. The fire meant that even the fish whose flesh was full of tiny bones could now be eaten, as grilling the fish over the fire softened the bones and made it possible to chew the fish whole and swallow. Though he enjoyed the taste of cooked food, no ships appeared over the horizon.

In the end, he was forced to conclude that the hope he had harbored was false. He had no idea how far the land in the mirage really was, and maybe the people there did not possess ships capable of coming out so far.

But at least he had a way to make fire, and that was something. He was immensely cheered: The knowledge he had gained in his travels through Dara was still worth something. Though he was far from home, the sun and the sea still worked as before. A lens still bent light, and fire could be made by harnessing the power of the sun. He could still improve his lot through diligence and ingenuity. Though the gods could not hear his prayers, the universe was knowable.

The fire eventually went out, but hope had returned to his heart.

After the episodes of delirium earlier, Luan no longer knew precisely how long he had been on the endless sea. The new constellations in the sky made it impossible for him to tell the seasons; the persistently hot and humid days were very different from those of Dara.

The raft was now drifting east. To deal with the sweltering weather, Luan Zya turned his thick outer robe into a blanket to sleep on. The thin under-robe he wore was now grimy, tattered, and barely covered his body, so he stripped it off and walked around the raft nude. To provide some measure of protection against the sun, he made hats and shawls for himself out of fish skin and pieces of the kite itself. His hair and beard grew out, snow white in color, and sometimes when he looked at his reflection in the sea he couldn’t even recognize himself.

He dared not burn more of the raft, and so he had to painstakingly gather bits of driftwood and seaweed and dry them for fuel. He thought the presence of driftwood indicated that land was nearby, but the current never brought him within sight of any landmass or ship.

And then, one day, he realized that the current had slowed down and turned north. He tried to steer with the sail again, and the raft actually made progress against the languorous flow.

He was free, on his own.

For the entirety of the time he had ridden this current, Luan had sought to escape it. But now it seemed as if he was saying good-bye to an old friend. He hesitated for a moment, looking at Gitré Üthu, with his rough maps of the course he had taken and the new stars he had seen.

Even if there is nothing but the endless ocean out there, it’s better to die sailing my own course.

He pointed his raft east and did not look back at the current.

The sores on his body scarred over and broke open again, and he always felt weak. He could feel his teeth growing loose in their sockets and his eyesight failing—his diet wasn’t giving him all the nourishment he needed, and exposure to the elements was giving him no chance at true recovery. After continuing east for weeks, he decided to shift to a more northerly course to seek a more temperate climate. The stars once again became familiar, though the view of the ocean still didn’t change.

Tazu, I can see why you are the way you are, he thought. The sea would drive even the gods mad.

Day after day, he peered into the distance and saw only water and more water. The fishes he caught now were yet again different from those in Dara as well as the ones he had seen in the current, and he continued to record them in Gitré Üthu with diligence. At night he dreamed feverish dreams, and he argued with the gods about the nature of the world.

Tututika, is there beauty in a society of one? Could there be imperfection when the world consists of only one soul?

Fithowéo, do you think there can be warfare between the self and the self?

The weather turned chilly, and the wind now consistently blew to the north and east. He wrapped himself in the tattered remains of his heavy robe, and draped clumps of seaweed over his tent to make it more difficult for the cold breeze to find openings. After some more weeks, the temperature had dropped to the point where his teeth began to chatter, and he wasn’t sure if he preferred the hellish heat of the southern regions or this.

Then came the day he beheld a sight that he at first thought was yet another mirage: tiny dots hovering on the horizon, circling.

Birds.

He looked at the ocean around him, and noticed floating vegetation: vines and twigs and leaves that didn’t appear to belong to the sea. Where had they come from?

He steered straight toward the birds, trying to hold back his excitement lest he be disappointed once more. By the time evening fell, a thick fog had descended over everything. He wrapped himself in his robe, now so decayed as to more resemble a shawl, and, as he slept, dreamed of landing on unknown shores, where immortals dressed in rich and colorful silks welcomed him with a lavish celebration.

He woke up, and there it was: a coastline that loomed across the entire horizon, a flat, tan expanse dotted with bits of green. Luan stood up on the swaying raft, clad only in his fish-skin cap and tattered robe, unable to believe his eyes. He had found land.

As he guided the kite-raft toward the shore, he saw a few small dwellings, white in color and shaped like mushrooms, clustered on land a short distance from the surf. A few small boats of a design Luan had never seen before rested on the beach. Shaped like shallow bowls, they appeared to be woven from grass, and a few air-filled bladders tied to the rims provided additional flotation.

The raft caught on something underwater and stopped. Luan Zya crawled off and splashed into the shallow water. The cold shocked his body, and the feeling of solid land under his feet felt unnatural after so much time spent on the ocean; his wobbly legs would not allow him to stand, and he had to support himself on his knees and hands. A wave crashed over him, drenching him in ice-cold water, and he almost fainted from the shock. He saw that some men and women, pale-skinned and light-haired, had emerged from the mushroom-shaped tents to gaze at him in wonder.

“Before the sea, all men are brothers,” he croaked, and then collapsed against the beach.

^{CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE} AN INTERLUDE

The wintry sea was calm outside the port of Kriphi, but the sky was overcast and faint flashes of lightning could be seen deep within the clouds. As the sun gradually set, the underwater wreckage of city-ships seemed to take on various shapes in the failing light: a giant turtle, a grinning shark, a school of glimmering carp, even massive birds that had somehow abandoned the rarefied air for a far denser medium.

- Where have you been, Old Turtle?

- Away at the edge of the world, to probe at the Wall of Storms again.

- What did you find?

- Terror of the unknown; I still could not pass through.

- You know we aren’t supposed to cross it, brother. Our mother told us that Moäno created it to mark Dara apart.

- But the world beyond has come to Dara, as well as new gods.

- We have not felt the power of these new gods yet; perhaps they are still weak from their journey.

In the last rays of the setting sun, the great shadow of the turtle seemed to shake its head.

- I fear that the Wall of Storms is a barrier that only the mortals may pass through, but not the gods.

The underwater shadows held still, as though the gods were shocked to hear this unimagined horror.

But Tazu, as always, was the first to break the morose mood.

- You’re missing a great story—your favorite mortal has been on quite an adventure.

- Did I miss much?

- They’re just getting to the good part.

- Lutho, why didn’t you follow your protégé beyond the Wall when he broke through three years ago?

- I tried to help him as much as I could, but I felt my power weaken as I tried to reach beyond that barrier. Our power comes from these islands, and we cannot leave our home without becoming… mortal.

- But maybe that means… the gods of these strangers also could not leave their home. The Lyucu have left their gods behind, their prayers unheard.

The gods pondered this as they continued to listen to the tale unfolding in the halls of the Palace of Kriphi, like patrons nursing drinks by the firelight of a pub as the storyteller continued his performance.

Zomi sat between the two stretchers, one hand holding the hand of her father, the other the hand of her teacher. The two men were now asleep, their pain temporarily dulled by medicine.

“Is there any hope?” she asked.

The army doctor furrowed his brows, neither nodding nor shaking his head. “They have been severely tortured,” he said. “I’m surprised that… they’re alive at all.”

Zomi nodded numbly.

On the ground before her lay Gitré Üthu, whose pages had told a tale that she hardly dared to believe.

“Rest, Father,” she murmured. “Rest, Teacher.”

Behind her, the generals and advisers and soldiers waited for her to read more.

^{CHAPTER FORTY-SIX} PRINCE AND PRINCESS OF UKYU

Luan woke up in a tent, lying on a bed of furs and covered by another fur. The dim interior of the tent was redolent with the musk of animals, strong but not unpleasant. Light came through a single central opening in the top, which also served as the chimney for the smoke from the cooking fire, over which a pot made of animal skins bubbled.

An old woman came to him and held a bowl to his mouth, feeding him something that smelled of fermented milk. He was famished. The sour taste was strong but also felt nourishing. He swallowed and swallowed, and fell back asleep before he finished.

He dreamed that his stomach became a battlefield. Currents of lava and ice fought for dominance inside him, hissing and steaming. He woke up vomiting, and he could feel that he had soiled himself. The old woman and several other figures came to attend to him, and he tried to croak out an apology, but was too weak to get out more than a mumble.

When he woke up again, he felt even weaker, but his stomach had finally settled. This time, the herders gave him something different, a soup or stew made of meat and vegetables. He tried to eat slowly this time, to give his body time to adjust to the new foods.

He finished one bowl and they fed him another, and this time, he felt strong enough to try to hold the bowl—made out of the seedpod of some plant chopped in half—himself. While he drank, the family spoke around him. Though he could not understand their language, he did pick out a word that sounded like “Dara.”

They know about my home? He couldn’t understand how that could be. But then exhaustion and sleep overtook him again.

He was jolted awake. Looking around, he grew alarmed. There were vertical bars all around him, made of white animal bones, and above him was a roof of animal skins. The sensation of being lifted and set down made him feel like he was in the sea again. He struggled to sit up, and what he saw took his breath away.

He was inside a cage, and his feet were tied to the bars of his prison with strong cords of sinew. But he didn’t even bother to struggle to free himself.

The cage, and he, were airborne. He was on the back of some great beast with wings that slowly beat through the air like the oars of an Imperial airship. A neck extended before him like the thick vines of the jungles of Arulugi or the rearing form of a giant python, and terminated in an antlered head shaped like a deer’s, though many times larger.

Somehow, the massive beast seemed familiar. But how could that be? He was sure he had never come across any description of such a creature in his travels.

Then it struck him. They looked exactly like the strange winged and antlered beasts he had seen on the wreckage pieces that had inspired his voyage.

His heart pounded with the thrill of discovery, of having stepped through a dream into a new world.

He examined the bones in the cage he was imprisoned in—long, large, hollow-sounding—and suspected that they came from the same kind of animal as he was riding on.

The great beast flew at a height of perhaps a few hundred yards above ground, similar to the cruising altitude of an Imperial airship. Far below, Luan could see an endless, flat, tan landscape dotted with clumps of brush and grass. Herds of animals—they resembled cattle, but far shaggier and somewhat bigger—roamed beneath him. And each herd was accompanied by two or three beasts like the one he rode on. They waddled alongside the herds, their wings folded, carrying herdsmen who looked up at his mount as it flew overhead. Far in the distance, he saw the slate-gray ocean, dotted here and there with a few of the small bowl-shaped grass ships bobbing over the waves.

There were guards all around the cage, maybe half a dozen of them, secured in harnesses or saddles attached to the back of their mount. Some were men, and some were women, but they all wore simple clothing made of fur and woven grass, and wielded war clubs and axes made of bones and stones, or slingshots made from antlers and sinew. Sensing that he was awake, a few turned to look at him with curious eyes.

Recalling that the herders who had rescued him seemed to know the name of Dara, he thought he would try to see if they knew his language.

“What country is this?” he asked. “Which people inhabit these shores?”

There was no response. The guards looked at him, their expressions unfathomable.

It was useless to try to ask questions when he had so little information. He had to bide his time and understand his situation better.

The universe is knowable.

About an hour later, the beast carrying him landed next to a cluster of mushroom-shaped tents, panting heavily. Another winged and antlered beast, similar in size but freshly rested, strode over to stand opposite his.

One of the guards, the one who rode at the base of the beast’s neck and was evidently the pilot, let out a series of loud whistles.

The beast lowered its head while keeping its neck stiff and straight, like a drawbridge. Luan saw the other beast mirroring the same motion until the two heads met in the center, their necks perfectly parallel with the ground. The two heads nuzzled against each other and moaned, and then they held still.

The guards unlashed the cage from the harness on the beast’s back, heaved it over their shoulders, and stepped onto the beast’s neck. Luan gripped the bars of his cage tightly as it swayed, certain that someone would lose their balance on the knobby vertebrae of the beasts and cause the cage to tumble down to the ground.

But the guards carried the cage across the living bridge formed by the necks of the two beasts as steadily as the palanquin carriers of Dara might have borne a passenger across a city moat. They secured the cage to the back of the new beast and buckled themselves into new harnesses and saddles.

Luan had already learned something. These beasts, though powerful, did not appear to be capable of sustaining flight for long. That probably explained why the herdsmen he had seen earlier had kept their mounts waddling awkwardly along the ground instead of hovering in the air.

His suspicion was confirmed as his new ride also landed after an hour, and the process of transfer was repeated. He reached for Gitré Üthu out of habit to record his observations and speculations about the novel flying beasts, and only then did he realize that the book was no longer with him. An intense pain racked him, as though a part of himself had been cut away—and that was true, in a manner of speaking. The book had been his sole companion during the long voyage across the ocean, the mirror of his delirium and the ledger of his dreams. Now that the kite-raft was gone, Gitré Üthu was the only witness left to all that he had experienced.

After switching through twelve beasts in this manner, they finally arrived at a massive settlement, a city made up of thousands of mushroom-shaped tents, many of them far larger than the ones he had seen so far.

In the center of the city was an especially massive tent that dwarfed the others, with a diameter that rivaled the Grand Examination Hall back in Pan. The flying beast landed, and Luan saw that in front of the tent was a tall bone pole, from whose crown several furry long tails flapped like banners. Luan was shocked to see two metal helmets—the first signs of metal he had seen anywhere in this new land—also dangling and flapping from the tip of the flagpole. The helmets were familiar to him, being constructed in the style of the old Xana Empire, and he could see that inside the helmets were the mummified remains of two heads.

Something writhed in the depths of Luan Zya’s mind, the beginning of a vague answer that could explain some of the riddles around him.

The beast touched its head to the ground to form a long, gentle slope with its neck, and the guards untied Luan’s feet, took him out of the cage, and then walked him down this makeshift flight of stairs.

One of the guards went inside the large tent, and after a while, she emerged and said something to the other guards. Together, they guided Luan to a small structure next to the large tent: a circular hut whose walls were made from a bone palisade covered with a layer of woven plant fiber and mud and whose roof was made of animal skin.

Inside, the only illumination came from a small opening in the roof and a small fire under the smoke-hole to keep the enclosure warm. Besides a stack of dry animal dung meant as fuel for the fire and a large seedpod-bowl that was likely intended for his night soil, the hut was bare save for a pile of pelts and furs, very clean, and he figured that he was supposed to use them as bedding. He could not find anything hard or sharp, no instruments that could be used as a weapon.

The guard closed the door behind him, and he heard the sound of something heavy being moved outside. When he tried the door again, he found that it was blocked from the outside.

Still weak from his ordeal, he lay down in his prison and went to sleep.

Several times a day, whatever blocked the door from the outside was rolled aside and someone came in to bring him food and to empty the night soil bowl. As blinding sunlight pierced the murk inside the cell, Luan shielded his eyes and tried to speak to whoever came in. They never answered him.

The food they served him was plain but filling: a hard cake that seemed to be made from pulverized dried meat, animal fat, and berries; a kind of flatbread that tasted of flour made from nuts; and plenty of water to drink in skin pouches. He could tell that this was the kind of food that could be prepared in large quantities and then stored away to be doled out over time to a large population, the kind of food that would be favored by armies or nomadic peoples on the move.

I’m being fed the same thing as the rest of the tribe, he thought. At least they aren’t mistreating me.

Then, on the fifth day, the door to the hut opened, but no one came in.

After his eyes had adjusted to the bright light, Luan decided that he would go to the door to see what was going on.

A semicircle of guards stood a few paces away, but Luan’s attention was drawn to the two young figures kneeling right before the door to the hut. Both were about twenty years old, one a man and the other a woman. The quality of the furs they wore and the delicate bone-and-teeth jewels they wore in their hair told Luan that they were nobles.

He noticed that they were kneeling in the position called mipa rari in Dara.

Could it be?

He knelt down also in formal mipa rari in the door of the hut.

“Luan Zya,” he said. He enunciated each syllable carefully and pointed at himself. Then he swept his hands out to the two young people kneeling opposite him.

“Forgive us, Honored Master,” they said together.

The accent was unfamiliar, but Luan’s face twitched uncontrollably and his vision grew blurred as he again heard, after having given up hope that he would ever do so, the speech of Dara.

“Welcome to Ukyu, the country of the Lyucu,” said the young man who introduced himself as Cudyu Roatan, the king’s son. “You’re in Taten, the capital of our humble land.”

“Our father is away to put down a rebellion,” said the young woman, who called herself Vadyu Roatan, the king’s daughter. “We apologize for the terrible ways you’ve been treated. The guards didn’t know you were an honored guest from Dara, a land we have always admired.”

They were sitting in the grand tent that Luan had seen when he had first been brought to the tent-city. The cavernous interior was thickly carpeted by furs, and clusters of low tables and partitions made from bone and animal hide marked out areas for dining, sleeping, sitting, holding court, and other functions that Luan could not begin to guess. The small table between them held plates full of fragrant roasted meat, skull-bowls filled with rich stew, and bone cups full of the intoxicating fermented milk drink the Lyucu called kyoffir.

As he sipped at his stew, Luan thought back to the way the family who had rescued him whispered the word “Dara” in his presence, but it was possible that he had been wrong during his fever-induced delirium. There were too many questions for him to focus on such small details.

He decided to get to the point right away. “How did you come to know of Dara? And how did you learn its speech?”

The prince and princess looked at each other and seemed to converse with their eyes.

“That is a long story,” said the prince, as he turned back to look at Luan.

“It might be easier to show you rather than tell you,” said the princess.

Sitting in a saddle and strapped into a harness this time, Luan Zya soared above the land and the sea as Vadyu piloted the winged beast—which she called a garinafin—in the saddle in front of him. This garinafin was much smaller than the ones that had carried him here, and Luan could feel every stroke of the powerful wings as the princess guided her mount along the coastline.

“Do you recognize those ships?” Vadyu asked.

Luan could hardly miss what she was talking about. There, anchored in the bay below him, were more than twenty massive ships, each as big as a small city. They were fitting tributes to the memory of a man who had dreamed of connecting the Islands of Dara with tunnels under the sea and whose projects were all monumental in scale, almost beyond mortal comprehension.

“So Emperor Mapidéré’s expedition to the immortals came here,” murmured Luan.

“More than twenty years ago!” Vadyu shouted to make herself heard above the sound of the rushing wind. “Before I was even born.”

Then, as they circled over the legendary fleet of city-ships that now bore silent witness to the grandness of Mapidéré’s vision, Vadyu told him a story that had changed her world.

For decades, perhaps centuries, the people of the scrublands lived simple lives as nomadic herders of cattle, relying on the winged garinafins to guard the herds as well as to provide companionship and transportation. Life was unchanging but also satisfying.

Then, one day, like a vision from an old creation myth, a fleet of ships as large as floating islands appeared on the horizon.

The coming of the people of Dara turned the world of the Lyucu upside down. The visitors showed the Lyucu how narrow their world had been, how devoid of all the joys and refinements associated with high civilization: machinery, art, literature, manners, true beauty.

It was as if, before the coming of the people of Dara, the Lyucu had been mere worms slithering in the grass, without an understanding of how falcons could soar and take in at a glance a world grander than the accumulated experience of thousands of generations of worms.

The people of Dara were excellent teachers, and the Lyucu and their honored guests lived in harmony for many years. This was how both Vadyu and Cudyu had learned the language of Dara, because they had caring and skilled teachers.

But then, one day, a calamity struck. All the visitors from Dara fell sick from some unknown plague, and every single one of them died within a few days despite heroic efforts from the Lyucu to save their teachers and friends.

“There, you can see the graves,” said Vadyu as she guided the garinafin into a low sweep along the ground next to the coast.

Luan glanced down and saw neat rows of thousands of grave markers made of bone. Each mound was about the size of a small hut in Dara. He was struck silent by the sight. What horror Vadyu and her people must have experienced as their foreign friends died in such an incomprehensible manner.

“We grieved for years,” said Vadyu. “And Father vowed to find a way to honor the final wishes of the visitors of Dara: to have their bodies interred in the soil of their homeland.”

Luan nodded. Kon Fiji had taught that the souls of the dead could not find rest until they had returned to the land of their birth. This was why the people of Dara had always expended extraordinary effort to bring the dead home, and why mass graves in foreign lands for dead soldiers had caused so much sorrow for the people during the rebellion and the Chrysanthemum-Dandelion War.

But Luan also noticed something odd. The graves and markers were so uniform in shape and color that it seemed as if they had been constructed by some predefined plan. Would a mass cemetery built in response to an unexpected plague look so neat, so… new?

“We honor the people of Dara in every way we can,” Vadyu said. “Admiral Krita, who led the expedition to these shores, still watches over us, as do the eyes of his wife, a Lyucu woman who fell in love with him. We have preserved their heads after the custom of our people, and they are displayed at the top of the flagstaff in front of the grand tent of Taten.”

Luan nodded. This explained the two metal helmets and the mummified remains he had seen dangling from the top of the flagpole. Yet something about Vadyu’s explanation bothered him. The way those heads had been displayed seemed to be a kind of warning, a celebration of cruel barbarism—but maybe he was just being too narrow-minded. The people of Lyucu had their own culture and customs, and he warned himself not to force his own preconceived ideas onto a new world.

Back in Taten, Luan Zya was installed in a tent that the prince and princess of the Lyucu shared. As they explained it, since he was clearly a learned man from Dara, he was fit to be their teacher as well and should live with them.

“Here is your book,” said Cudyu. Reverently, he held Gitré Üthu in both hands and presented it to Luan. “You must be an extremely learned man to have such a thick tome with you.”

“We’ve preserved the city-ships as best as we are able,” said Vadyu. “If only we could find a way to help guide the lost souls of the honored guests from Dara back to their home. Alas, we lack the knowledge of the master navigators of Dara.”

“While the guests from Dara were alive, they tried to find their way home many times,” said Cudyu. “Father always gave them whatever help they needed. But none of the fleets they launched to find a way home ever succeeded… and some never came back, except as wreckage that washed ashore after many years.”

“Do you have records of Emperor Mapidéré’s expedition and details about the subsequent explorations?” asked Luan. He couldn’t help himself. The prospect of such a puzzle was too tempting, and if he could solve the puzzle, not only would the bodies of the members of Mapidéré’s expedition be brought back to Dara, he would also be able to go home.

Cudyu and Vadyu looked at each other again, and Cudyu excused himself and left.

“From the visitors of Dara, we learned about an impenetrable Wall of Storms that surrounds the Islands,” said Vadyu. “Is it true?”

Luan nodded. “It is. I got through it by sheer luck.”

“You’d have to sail through it again to return home, wouldn’t you?”

“Something I’ve been thinking a lot about.”

“Whatever you need, you just have to ask. It’s the least we can do after all the people of Dara have done for us.”

Luan nodded. He was feeling more than a little overwhelmed by the care of the prince and princess for the welfare of people from a faraway land. They were demonstrating, far more skillfully than many philosophers of Dara, the ideals behind Kon Fiji’s dictum that strangers should be honored as the gods.

Cudyu returned with a pile of scrolls and volumes and maps. “These are the logs left by Admiral Krita of his voyage to Ukyu, as well as the prelaunch plans of later exploratory missions.”

“Do you have records of when and where the wreckage of these exploratory missions were discovered?”

“Yes.” Cudyu showed Luan where to look.

Luan was amazed by how quickly and neatly Cudyu had assembled so much material. It was as if everything had been set aside ahead of time, just waiting for him to ask for them….

He shook his head. He was acting paranoid and suspicious, a bad habit from his time in Dara, where politics and plots seemed to infuse every interaction with those in power. This was a different land and there were different rules. He would not insult the prince and princess who tried to honor the memory of strangers who had come across the sea and become their friends.

This was a fresh world of wonders, of new sights and new paths. After being alone for so long on the endless sea, the succor of human contact was too sweet for him not to savor it. The inquisitive and respectful prince and princess awakened the teacher in him, who always craved the stimulation of conversing with fresh, young minds. The joy of exploration and discovery was intoxicating, and he could not resist the lure of testing his mettle against an intricate new puzzle.

And yet, the ever-cautious Luan could not fully suppress his own nagging doubt. He decided to take precautions.

For days Luan kept himself at his task. He pored over tables of figures and scratched out computations in a tray of sand; he compared the maps from Admiral Krita’s logs with the maps he had drawn in Gitré Üthu; he examined Krita’s observations of the Wall of Storms and matched them against his own; he correlated records of the winds and tides and times of sunrise and sunset; he pulled out dates and times, arranged and rearranged them, and drew connections between them and made inferences; he seized on every detail in the records that seemed significant or unusual; he built models and made leaps of logic.

Cudyu and Vadyu left him alone to his work, but they kept him supplied with nourishing food and refreshing drink. When they sensed that he needed a break, they took him on sightseeing tours of the surrounding country on garinafin-back, and they humbly asked him to share his theories and thoughts.

The prince and princess were ideal students, Luan realized, and he enjoyed the stimulation of talking with them. Scholarship required the sharpening of bright minds against other bright minds, and Luan was reminded in conversing with these two of his time drifting around Dara in a balloon with Zomi.

Then, one night, Luan Zya put down the bone pen he had been using to write in the tray of sand. He had solved the puzzle of how to get back to Dara.

The universe is knowable. Patterns could be discerned and made useful.

He wanted to shout with joy, but it was so late that Cudyu and Vadyu had already gone to bed. He would have to wait until morning to share his discoveries.

But he was too excited to sleep, and so he decided to take a walk. The guards at the door of the tent nodded at him as he passed. The prince and princess had accompanied Luan everywhere the last few days, and the guards now treated him with great respect.

The light of the moon gilded the scrublands with a silver sheen. The tent-city of Taten appeared like the palaces on the moon in old sagas. Luan made a slow circuit of the grand tent, admiring the workmanship—the Lyucu were a people as different from Dara as it was possible to imagine, and yet love of beauty and the care for doing one’s work well seemed universal.

Luan Zya was now behind the grand tent. He saw a strange mound, in the side of which was a door made of a grid of bones.

A cold hand seemed to clench around Luan Zya’s heart. He couldn’t explain why he felt such dread.

As though seized by a will other than his own, Luan went up and opened the grid. It was pitch-black inside. He took a tentative step forward—

—and he tumbled down a long, sloping tunnel. He shouted for help, but the darkness swallowed his cries.

Air knocked out of him, Luan had to lie still on the ground for a while to recover. He was in an underground cave that reeked of rotting food and human waste. It was cold. The only light and fresh air came from the tunnel he had tumbled through.

^{CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN} MAPIDÉRÉ’S EXPEDITION

He heard something, or somethings, scurrying away in the darkness.

A rat? Or something far worse?

But he kept calm and called out, “Who’s there?”

The murk seemed to swallow his voice. There was no reply except more sounds of scurrying. Luan peered into the darkness, and he could see several vague shapes, each about the size of a man, huddled on the far side of the cave. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought they resembled miniature garinafins.

He waited until his eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness, and he found his initial impression to be correct. About half a dozen juvenile garinafins were huddled in a corner, their necks leashed with thick cables made of hide, which were tethered to the walls of the cave.

Are they being punished?

But there was another figure in the darkness, shaped like a man, not a beast.

“I came in here by mistake,” he said tentatively, and took a step toward the man. He wished he knew the language of these people. “I mean you no harm.”

“Are you from Dara?” a voice asked. It sounded raspy, hesitant, as though the owner was no longer used to speaking aloud. But the accent was not like that of Cudyu and Vadyu—it was redolent with the harmonies of home. “Have you been sent here by Emperor Mapidéré?”

Luan took another step forward, his heart pounding with excitement. Could it be? Were Cudyu and Vadyu wrong about everyone having died?

He realized that the figure in the cave was shackled to the wall with thick cables as well. Confusion seized his mind. Why?

“No…” He took a deep breath and fought to keep himself calm. “I’m Luan Zya, a man of Haan. Emperor Mapidéré has crossed the River-on-Which-Nothing-Floats a long time ago.”

“The emperor is dead?” The voice was colored in equal measure by disbelief and awe.

“He is,” confirmed Luan Zya. “Did you come on his expedition to the land of the immortals? How did you survive? Why are you here? What is your name?”

“I did… though to answer all your questions would require a very long story. I’m Oga Kidosu, once a fisherman of Dasu and now the pékyu’s disgraced storyteller. Tell me how you came to be here.”

And so, in that dank, cold cellar, two men connected by the life of Zomi Kidosu shared their tales.

Luan told Oga of the sad fate of his sons during the wars of the rebellion, and he spoke to him of the remarkable young woman his daughter had grown up to be. He described the resilient expression on Aki Kidosu’s face and the strength in her every simple word and resolute motion. He recounted for Oga the hot-air balloon rides he had taken with Zomi over Dara, and he tried to re-enact, as best as he could, the young woman’s performance at the Palace Examination.

“Surely you are spinning tall tales!” exclaimed Oga. “Pearl of Fire! What a lovely formal name—how it must fit her. Even as a baby she was fiery and stubborn. And my daughter a cashima? A firoa? A scholar who dared to speak to the Emperor of Dara without averting her eyes?”

“She was all those things, and more.”

With so little time and so much to tell, his account was necessarily abbreviated, and he had to assure Oga repeatedly that he would help fill in the details later.

Oga wept and wept, with joy at hearing news of his wife, with grief at the deaths of his sons, with pride at the achievements of his daughter.

And then it was Oga’s turn to tell his story.

Like all true stories, it was a mix of legends and facts, of myths imagined and deeds done, of the heart of darkness and the crown of light, of experiences borne and gaps filled, of things seen and visions that could only be authenticated by the mind’s eye.

He spoke of a storm that capsized his small boat twenty-two years ago; of hanging on for days to a piece of wreckage, hungry, thirsty, terrorized by sharks, and delirious from the harsh sun and the relentless waves; of finally letting go of the wreckage so that he could seek the solace of death; of opening his mouth to suck in lungfuls of water; of being lifted out of the water on the back of a sea turtle, friend of those lost at sea; of being carried, half-dreaming, half-asleep, across the waves until coming into sight of the fleet of city-ships; of sailors on the decks cheering at him as at an omen; of being taken aboard and being fed and watered and clothed and given a bunk to sleep in.

“Everybody in the fleet was so excited and full of confidence. They thought Lutho, the hope of drowning men, had sent me as a sign of further good fortune. They had had calm seas and speedy winds that carried them north for days—”

“I was wondering about that!” interrupted Luan Zya. “I saw no record of any storm shortly after departure in the logs of Admiral Krita, and I thought that odd.”

“It was strange. No one remembered any storm. I couldn’t explain it.”

Luan pondered this. It appeared that the storm that everyone thought had devastated the fleet had been but a trick of the gods, most likely Tazu.

“We sailed straight north, and the wind was so strong behind us that I would have sworn that we were flying. We had no trouble until we came to the Wall of Storms—”

Luan shuddered as he remembered his own encounter with that awe-inspiring sight.

“—and we were certain that we were doomed. We tried everything to pull back; everybody—sailors, marines, cooks, maids, seamstresses, even Admiral Hujin Krita himself—manned the oars, and the city-ships flexed and shuddered as we fought against the sea.

“But it was no use. The winds would not relent, and the fleet was pushed, bit by bit, into the way of certain death. So many men and women jumped into the sea in desperation, thinking they would try swimming back to the Islands of Dara rather than sailing into the maw of the Wall. Even the prince himself, Emperor Mapidéré’s son, grew so terrified of the storm that he leapt into the ocean and was never seen again.

“Eventually, exhausted, the rest of us gave up and waited for the storms to smash us and bring us to the undersea palace of Tazu.

“But somehow, as we accelerated toward the Wall, the cyclones and twisters parted ways and opened a path between them. The fleet sailed through like a caravan going through a valley formed with towering waves! Admiral Krita said it was a sign that even the forces of nature had to obey the edicts of Emperor Mapidéré….”

After passing through the Wall, Oga recounted, the fleet encountered a powerful current.

Unlike Luan’s tiny kite-raft, the city-ships under Admiral Krita’s command were able to escape the current’s pull after a great deal of struggle: The sails were filled with a cooperating wind, and everyone aboard helped with rowing. The fleet then continued due north.

However, after many days voyaging in the endless ocean, the weather grew chilly and icebergs appeared in the water. These were not the conditions described in the ancient sources consulted by Krita and Métu in their research into the Land of the Immortals, and it seemed that if the city-ships continued along the same course, they risked being caught in ice.

Krita made the bold conjecture that the ancient sources had perhaps been mistaken and that they were meant to follow the current. The fleet turned around, and after reaching the current again, allowed it to seize the fleet.

Eventually, as the current carried them on a wide, looping course—west, south, east, and north again—and slowed down, Krita decided to depart from it.

But whereas Luan chose to head east after leaving the current, Admiral Krita had directed the fleet to go west, in hopes of returning to Dara. However, the fleet eventually ran into the Wall of Storms again, some distance to the east of Wolf’s Paw by the guesses of the navigators. It seemed that the Wall of Storms surrounded all of Dara.

Krita ordered the fleet to head back east, and crossed the current again. Eventually, the city-ships landed in this terra incognita, much as Luan had.

They were on an island many times larger than even the Big Island of Dara, Oga explained. Perhaps it was akin to the legendary lost continent spoken of in ancient Ano sagas. The coast extended north until it turned into the land of permanent ice, and extended south until it became impassable desert. To the east the land ran on and on, eventually running up against mountain ranges that were so high that the tops of the mountains pierced the clouds and were permanently encased in ice. In the flat scrubland that made up most of the rest of this continent, scattered tribes made a living herding long-haired cattle.

Though Oga’s account of the lives and histories of the people of the scrublands was necessarily abbreviated and limited, Luan would eventually come to fill in the holes with many more details.

Over the eons, the tribes roamed over the land, following the ebb and flow of rivers whose courses shifted with each spring melt and winter freeze. After the grazing herd wore out a patch of land, they moved on to new pastures, giving the old grounds a chance to recover.

The tribes were small and their lives always on the edge of disaster. Their survival and the survival of the herds depended on a balance between drought and flooding. Even in good times, the plains were filled with predators with sharp claws and sharper teeth: massive horrid wolves who hunted in packs, tusked tigers who stalked the watering holes, and giant flightless birds with swordlike beaks who could kill a long-haired calf with a single, well-placed thrust.

Gradually, some of the tribes learned to tame the garinafins, gigantic beasts with barrel-shaped bodies, serpentine necks, antlered heads, and taloned, birdlike feet capable of flight for short periods of time as well as breathing fire. The winged creatures, ridden by skilled warriors, could protect the herds from predators and scout out faraway pastures and water sources, and the lives of the tribes came to shape them and be shaped by them.

As the scrubland lacked large trees, garinafin and cattle bones and skin were the preferred construction material for shelter, clothing, weapons, and everything else the people needed. Those living near the coast sometimes took to the sea to fish on coracles—shallow, keelless circular boats made from woven grass or animal hide—but the vast majority of the tribes lived nomadic lives on the backs of the garinafins.

The garinafins were fiery tempered and required years of bonding between pilot and mount to be reliable, and as riding and herding were skills needed and learned by all the members of the tribes of the plains, men and women were equally likely to become skilled pilots.

Life on the plains had always been brutal and hard. The numbers of cattle and people that could be supported by the scrub and grass was limited, and competition for fresh pastures was fierce. As long as people could remember, there had always been small skirmishes between the tribes, and incessant reprisals and revenge killings a fact of life.

But the addition of the garinafins transformed the nature of these conflicts. The flying beasts and their riders allowed a tribe to project power far beyond the territory it directly occupied. The milk of the garinafins was especially rich and nourishing, and warriors could subsist on nothing but garinafin’s milk for days, fighting far from home. Whichever tribe had more garinafins was almost certain to come out ahead in any conflict.

Small, traditional skirmishes thus grew into increasingly large-scale wars, and eventually raids between dozens of warriors turned into massive battles between thousands, involving clashing armies on the plains as well as hundreds of garinafins soaring and diving overhead.

Over time, the scattered tribes of the scrubland were unified under two great chiefs, called pékyus. The unified tribes of the north called themselves the Lyucu, and named their land Ukyu; those in the south called themselves the Agon, and named their land Gondé.

For centuries, the Lyucu and the Agon were locked in a stalemate punctuated by occasional, but bloody and indecisive, border skirmishes. However, during the decades immediately before the arrival of the expedition from Dara, the Agon gradually came to dominate both Ukyu and Gondé with an advantage in the number of garinafins. After a series of massacres in which tens of thousands of Lyucu were slaughtered, the Lyucu chieftains rebelled against their king, Pékyu Toluroru, and forced him to acknowledge the suzerainty of the Agon. To show the sincerity of the Lyucu chieftains and Toluroru, the prince of the Lyucu, Tenryo Roatan, was given to the Agon as a hostage.

“The Agon would come to regret this decision,” said Oga. “Had the boy not been raised as a hostage among them, you and I would also not be conversing today in this underground prison.”

^{CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT} THE LYUCU AND AGON

Tenryo was born to one of Pékyu Toluroru’s youngest wives, a thane’s daughter who was known more for her skill as a carver of garinafin bones than for her prowess on the back of a garinafin. That his mother lacked the support of the warriors of her tribe meant that the young prince was never one of his father’s favorites. It made perfect sense then that when Pékyu Toluroru Roatan of Ukyu surrendered to Pékyu Nobo Aragoz of Gondé, the young boy, barely ten years old, was chosen as the hostage to be sent south to the great camp of the Agon as a sign of the Lyucu’s obeisance.

The young boy was treated well by his hosts and captors. Raised alongside Pékyu Nobo’s sons and daughters, he was even given the same instructions in wrestling, wielding the war club, riding the long-haired bull, and piloting the garinafin. The hope was that as he would grow up among the Agon, he would come to view them as a second family; then, after he reached maturity and returned to the Lyucu—a younger brother or sister or cousin having been sent to replace him as hostage—he would act as an advocate for the interests of the Agon among Pékyu Toluroru’s thanes and thus help preserve the peace. Nobo even had the thought of marrying one of his daughters to the young man when he came of age to further cement their bond.

The Agon exacted a heavy price on the surrendered Lyucu tribes: They had to yield up the best pastures and pay yearly tribute to the conquerors in the form of cattle, slaves, and garinafin hides and bones. Anger seethed as Pékyu Toluroru’s thanes enforced the terms of the surrender on their own people with little mercy.

Yet, for years afterward, the peace bought so dearly with blood held as the Lyucu tribes seemed content to suffer in silence and did not seek vengeance. Pékyu Nobo’s thanes congratulated their chief on the success of having broken the stubborn will of their savage enemies.

However, in the year Tenryo turned sixteen, Toluroru Roatan rebelled. Starting years earlier, he had slowly and secretly diverted a trickle from the supply of tribute that was supposed to be paid to the Agon, managing to amass an army of three hundred garinafins and thousands of riders in the foothills of the mountains far to the east, out of sight of Agon spies. A surprise attack on Agon herdsmen in territories that had traditionally belonged to the Lyucu turned into a great success as Lyucu slaves—some of them married to Agon spouses—rose up against their masters to join the rebellion. The slaughter was brutal as many mothers and fathers bashed in the heads of their Agon wives and husbands in sleep and strangled their half-Agon children, their hatred for their ancient foe as hot as the breath of the garinafin.

“As Cudyufin and Nalyufin are my witness,” declared Pékyu Toluroru, invoking the names of the goddesses of the fiery sun and the icy moon, “we will cleanse this land of the stench of the Agon with blood.” Any liberated Lyucu slaves who refused to kill their half-Agon children were declared traitors and publicly executed.

News of the rebellion was brought to Pékyu Nobo, and Tenryo, the young hostage, was taken in front of the Agon king.

“Your father doesn’t seem to care about your well-being,” said the old man.

Tenryo held his tongue. What Nobo said was obviously true; his father had decided that he could be sacrificed. That was always the danger a hostage assumed.

“I have treated you like my own son,” said Nobo, and his eyes were dim with genuine sorrow. He sighed. “But you must pay for the misdeeds of your father, just as Aluro, the Lady of a Thousand Streams, freezes in winter to atone for the errors of the All-Father. In consideration of our time together, I will not shame you by spilling your blood in the Eye of Cudyufin, the Well of Daylight.”

What he meant was that Tenryo would be tied up and wrapped in a sheet of garinafin skin and then placed on the open plain, where a herd of long-haired cattle would be driven over him and trample him to death. As his blood would never be exposed to sunlight, the goddess Cudyufin would not see that he died without a fight. This was considered the most merciful means of execution among the Lyucu and Agon alike, a death with some honor for those who were not lucky enough to perish in war.

“I ask only that you have my brother Diaman carry out the order,” Tenryo said. Diaman was one of Nobo’s sons, and he and Tenryo were such good friends that they called each other brother.

“Of course,” said Pékyu Nobo. He thought it was a sign of the young prince’s nobility that he did not beg or plead for his life, but submitted to it with dignity. Asking for Diaman to carry out the order further endeared him to the old king. To take the life of another was a great honor, even if it was bloodless. Though Diaman was fierce and brave, he had not had a chance to prove himself on the battlefield due to the long peace with the Lyucu. For Tenryo to offer his own life as a way to give Diaman a taste of what it meant to kill was a selfless act of love for his brother.

“You have the grace of a true prince,” said Nobo. “Liluroto, the All-Father, will prepare a special place for you by his side in the afterlife. How I wish you were truly my son and we did not have to do this.”

Tenryo nodded and said nothing.

On the day of the execution, Diaman escorted Tenryo to the open plains some distance from the main camp. This was an important location for the Agon for it was here, many years ago, that Nobo Aragoz, still a young man, had first vowed to bring the Lyucu to submit and unite all the tribes of the plains, to stop the endless cycles of slaughter.

The two young men—barely more than boys really—gazed at the commotion in the distance, each lost in his own thoughts. Pékyu Nobo’s warriors were preparing to march on the impudent Toluroru and his rebel Lyucu. Thousands of men and women were preparing for war: striking camp; packing up the bone poles and skin tents; loading the bundles onto the backs of long-haired cattle and garinafins; sharpening the stone blades embedded in bone clubs; and praying to the All-Father and Diasa, his bright-eyed club-maiden, for glory on the battlefield.

“I am truly sorry that it has come to this,” whispered Diaman. He remembered the times Tenryo and he had wrestled as boys, the times they had helped each other as they first learned to ride the garinafins, the times they had disobeyed Pékyu Nobo and gotten in trouble—Diaman had almost forgotten that Tenryo was the son of his father’s foe, a hostage. He had grown close to him; he would pay for that now.

“Don’t be foolish,” said Tenryo. He smiled. “If our positions were reversed, I wouldn’t be sorry at all. What can be a better gift than giving my life to someone I admire so much? You’ll be a great leader one day, my brother.”

Diaman thought Tenryo was very brave. Even at a moment like this he was trying to make his friend feel better.

“Prepare the shroud,” Diaman ordered. Several warriors came over, carrying a large section of the thin, membranous skin cut from the wings of a garinafin. They also brought over a length of sinew that would be used to bind Tenryo’s wrists and ankles.

“Would you grant me a last favor?” asked Tenryo.

“Anything, brother.”

“When I was younger and had trouble sleeping, I needed to hold on to a baby blanket made from the soft skin of a long-haired calf. Could you use that to wrap me instead? I’m afraid that… I might embarrass myself at the last minute if I don’t have some way to calm down.”

“Of course,” said Diaman. He sent the guards to exchange the garinafin wing leather for a blanket made of calfskin.

“And remember the pair of horns we got as boys that we used as weapons?”

Diaman chuckled. When Tenryo had first come to live with him and the other children of Nobo, he and Tenryo had played with a pair of yearling cattle horns as though they were war clubs. Those early fights were how they had become friends.

“I’d like those with me as a last memory of our time together.”

Diaman nodded, trying to blink back his tears. He asked the guards to fetch those childhood mementos from his tent and handed them to his old friend.

“I have to tie you myself,” said Diaman. This was what would make the kill his, the act that would mark this the day he turned from a boy to a man.

Tenryo held out his hands and said nothing. Diaman could see that his hands weren’t even trembling. He bound Tenryo’s wrists and ankles loosely, not willing to use too much force to break the skin of his friend and thus ruin the point of the execution: to not spill blood in sunlight. He saw Tenryo whispering thank you to him silently.

“Good-bye, brother,” said Diaman.

“Good-bye, brother,” said Tenryo.

And then the guards wrapped him in the calfskin blanket, lay him over their shoulders, and carried him into the middle of the open field. A herd of cattle was brought over and lined up to face the lonely bundle in the middle of the field.

Diaman whistled and summoned his mount, a young, strong-spirited garinafin named Kidia, who was only about fifteen feet tall from the ground to neck. Such juvenile garinafins were good for training and scouting missions, as well as camp security, leaving the full-grown beasts for frontline warfare. The garinafin folded her wings and knelt, and the Agon prince climbed on. Then he waited until the guards had jogged away from the bundle. He took a deep breath.

So this is what it feels like to kill a man.

He squeezed his knees around the base of Kidia’s neck, and the young beast leapt into the air, spreading her wings impatiently. Diaman directed the beast to rise up about thirty yards into the air, turn around, and dive at the herd.

As planned, the herd stampeded, rushing at the lonesome bundle in the distance with thundering hooves. Diaman tapped the base of the neck of the garinafin lightly with his bone trumpet, telling her to land slowly. Since a garinafin’s power of flight was limited, there was no point in wasting its energy uselessly.

In a minute, the herd had charged over the spot where Tenryo lay. Diaman looked at the unmoving bundle, and his heart was full of sorrow and pain—and, he couldn’t deny it, a measure of excitement. The deed had been done.

It was now his job to go up and unwrap the bundle, to be sure that his friend was dead. He couldn’t bear the thought of seeing the crushed bones, the trampled limbs and broken skull. But he had to. If he failed to carry through the ritual, his friend’s calm acceptance of death would mean nothing.

He urged Kidia to approach the bundle. One waddling step. Another. He tapped against the garinafin’s neck to make her kneel and climbed down. He was now standing next to the motionless bundle. He retrieved the war axe strapped to his back—in case Tenryo had survived the stampede, he would have to deliver the killing blow personally and rob him of an honorable death. Though that was an unlikely outcome, his hand shook.

Strange, the yearling horns had somehow been attached to the outside of the bundle with Tenryo trapped inside, giving it the appearance of a calf dozing in the grass.

Diaman steeled himself for the unpleasant task ahead. He was alone, his guards hundreds of yards away. This was his duty: To gaze upon the face of the man who had died because of his action was a crucial part of growing up on the scrublands, an essential rite of passage for a warrior and especially the son of a great pékyu. He took a deep breath, bent down, and reached for the calfskin.

But before his hands had even touched the bundle, it began to unroll by itself. Diaman was so startled that he stumbled.

Tenryo emerged from the skin; his hands and ankles were free, and he was completely unharmed.

“How—” Diaman’s question was choked off with a gasp as Tenryo stabbed a thin, long dagger made from the sharpened ear bone of a garinafin into his throat.

Diaman collapsed, and before the stunned guards could react, Tenryo had grabbed his war axe, climbed onto the back of Diaman’s garinafin, and strapped himself into the saddle. The war axe, a prized possession that had been in the Aragoz family for generations, had a handle that was fashioned from the rib of the garinafin that had been the mount of Togo Aragoz, the first pékyu of the Agon in the mists of ancient history, and a blade that was made from one of the talons of the same beast. The bone handle, after rubbing against the calloused hands of dozens of Aragoz warriors, was smooth as the pebbles found on the bottom of a creek and glinted pure white, and the blade itself had smashed through the skulls and torn through the torsos of countless men and women. Named Langiaboto, which in the language of the tribes of the scrubland meant “self-reliance,” it was a weapon that had always been wielded by the heirs of the House of Aragoz.

Tenryo kicked Kidia hard under the neck, causing the beast to moan angrily and shoot straight into the air, her massive wings flapping arrhythmically. Tenryo stabbed the bone knife into the soft folds of skin at the base of Kidia’s neck and whispered into this makeshift speaking tube. The beast circled over the corpse of her old master a few times. Shuddering and hissing, she seemed to come to some decision.

The garinafin rose higher into the air and headed north with powerful wing strokes, leaving the Agon guards scrambling to tend to the body of their dead prince and to figure out what had happened.

Tenryo Roatan journeyed north to the ancestral homeland of the Lyucu on the back of his new mount. It was not an easy journey. As a juvenile, Kidia’s stamina was even less than full-sized garinafins. Whenever she got tired, he had to find a dried riverbed or a butte with an overhanging cliff where the young beast could be hidden from the view of pursuing garinafins. They took to flying during the night and sleeping during the day, and Tenryo spent hours at sunset and dawn cautiously scampering over the scrubland to collect feed for Kidia so that she would not have to reveal herself.

His plan, though one conceived in desperation, had been carried out with perfection. He had counted on his friend’s compassion to give his hands and feet enough freedom to escape from the loose binding. He had also gambled on simulating the appearance of a sleeping newborn calf with the skin and horns to avoid being trampled by the long-haired cattle herd. Most of all, he had manipulated Pékyu Nobo Aragoz into appointing Diaman as his executioner because of Diaman’s mount, Kidia.

The garinafins were highly social and intelligent creatures who lived in family groups, and like the elephants of Dara, they had never been domesticated in the true sense. While some pilots connected with their mounts with real bonds of friendship, such relationships took years to build and were not conducive to fielding massive flying armies where pilots and riders died in large numbers and their mounts had to be transferred to new pilots at a moment’s notice.

Pékyu Nobo Aragoz of the Agon, the uniter of a thousand tribes, had achieved his victory over the Lyucu by fielding much larger garinafin herds than was believed possible. He had achieved this feat by inventing a new model for pilots and flying beasts. Instead of allowing each pilot to cultivate a personal relationship with their mount from the birth of the creature, he reconceived the garinafins as being in enforced servitude to the riders. To ensure that the beasts would accept any Agon pilot and carry out their order and serve the army loyally, garinafins who were in the prime of life and suitable for warfare were sent to the front lines while their aged parents and young children were imprisoned back home and threatened with harm.

“Like these baby garinafins around us in this underground cell,” said Luan Zya. He looked at the frightened beasts chained to the walls of the cell. They appeared emaciated and passive, kept deliberately in a state of near starvation and frailty.

Oga Kidosu nodded. “That’s right. They usually picked the smallest and youngest, the runts of the litter, and kept them in holding cells like this one. This cell is rigged with a mechanism so that the entire place can be collapsed at a command from the pékyu, and these children would be buried alive. There are cells like this throughout Taten, the Lyucu capital tent-city, and they guarantee that the Lyucu army’s war garinafins would not dare to rebel against their masters.”

Luan Zya’s heart clenched at the thought. “This is great evil.”

“Tenryo Roatan, as a hostage himself, understood the psychology of the enslaved garinafins of the Agon very well.”

“So well that he has apparently re-created it for his own advantage here,” said Luan.

“Control of the garinafins is now the foundation of both the cultures of the Lyucu and the Agon.”

“So how did Tenryo convince the garinafin Kidia to rebel?”

Unusual among the garinafins in Pékyu Nobo’s army, Kidia was an orphan. Her grandparents, parents, and elder siblings had all died in battle, and she was too young to be mated. Adolescent garinafins in her situation were considered untrustworthy and, in the normal course, would be slaughtered for meat, leather, and bones. But Diaman had taken a liking to the beast when she was still a baby and pleaded for her life. As a shackled hostage to ensure the loyalty of her parents, Kidia had demonstrated unusual docility, and so Pékyu Nobo, in a moment of weakness, had indulged his young son and let the creature live.

Tenryo had learned to ride Kidia along with Diaman and always thought of her as timid. But one day, while no one else was around, he secretly observed the young garinafin stealing and breaking one of Diaman’s favorite antler slingshots and surreptitiously dropping it in the tent of one of Diaman’s grooms, who were charged with caring for the young prince’s garinafins. When the prince couldn’t find the slingshot, Pékyu Nobo had publicly chastised him, and when the humiliated Diaman eventually discovered the broken slingshot in the tent of his groom, he had the man whipped to within an inch of his life.

Puzzled by this series of events, Tenryo made some discreet inquiries and discovered that the groom had once been a guard for baby garinafins kept as hostages and had a reputation for being quite sadistic. Kidia, in fact, had been one of his charges.

Tenryo understood then that the seemingly docile beast was really a kindred soul—they both put on the disguise of harmless servility while harboring cold thoughts of vengeance and hot ambition. He retrieved the broken slingshot and came to Kidia at night, and, as the startled beast watched, mimed a re-enactment of Kidia’s crime.

As Kidia’s eyes narrowed and her neck tensed, Tenryo stood his ground and looked into her eyes. “We are allies,” he whispered, hoping against hope that the unusually intelligent beast would understand. Then, as the beast watched, he broke the slingshot into even more pieces and buried them in a pile of garinafin dung that the grooms had not yet had a chance to remove.

Next to the pile of dung was a tent that belonged to the man Diaman had whipped. He had been assigned the duty to clean garinafin dung as punishment, but he had already fallen asleep after seeking solace in kyoffir.

In the pale moonlight, Kidia and Tenryo looked at each other, and Tenryo grinned. Kidia snorted and went back to sleep while Tenryo stole away as quietly as a plains mole sliding back into its tunnel.

The next day, after the discovery of the pieces of the slingshot in the dung heap, the unfortunate groom was executed by garinafin breath for this act of petty vengeance and dishonor to the prince.

Thereafter, there was an understanding between Kidia and Tenryo; they simply waited for the right opportunity.

When Tenryo leapt onto the young garinafin’s back after murdering his friend, Kidia understood that her moment to return the favor had come. As the young garinafin circled over Diaman’s body, Tenryo murmured into the speaking tube his desire to one day carry out justice against the people who had enslaved Kidia and her family. He knew that the garinafin, no matter how smart she was, could not possibly understand his speech to that degree, but his confident tone was enough for Kidia to decide to throw in her lot with him.

When Kidia landed in the camps of the Lyucu with Tenryo on her back, no one was more surprised to see him than Pékyu Toluroru Roatan, his father. The crafty rebel leader had not expected his young son to have the courage and skill necessary to survive his Agon captors, and he had been fully prepared to sacrifice the child. But the legend of Tenryo’s daring escape soon spread like wildfire over the scrublands, and Toluroru had no choice but to elevate Tenryo to the position of a prominent thane and give him the command of his own army.

Toluroru’s surprise rebellion against the Agon proceeded well, and soon the Lyucu had recovered most of their ancestral moiety of the scrublands from their erstwhile conquerors. But warfare was an expensive affair and could not be carried out indefinitely in the scrublands, where harsh winter storms and unpredictable summer droughts made survival the first priority and forced the tribes to continuously seek out new pastures as they migrated across the land. The two nations of Lyucu and Agon, each unable to overcome the other, eventually conceded that they had to, once again, coexist peacefully.

Tenryo seemed content with his new position as a respected, though still not favored, child of Pékyu Toluroru. It was clear that he would not succeed his aged father as Pékyu of Lyucu—that honor belonged to one of his siblings who had grown up by the side of the pékyu and were thus more trusted and loved, but until the death of his father and the inevitable succession wars that would follow, his place at least seemed secure. He was expected to idle his time away as just another one of dozens of princes and princesses, leading the tribes and cattle herds under his charge to roam over the vast scrubland, searching for better pastures and enjoying his privilege.

But Tenryo did not remain idle. He devoted his energy to training the warriors under his command for a new way of making war.

The concept of a professional army did not exist among either the Agon or the Lyucu. Most of the men and women of the tribes were herders during times of peace, and picked up war clubs and axes and mounted the garinafins for fighting only when war flared up. Tenryo broke with tradition by drafting a son or daughter from each of the families in the tribes given to him to lead and keeping them in constant training.

To support such a standing army, he increased the annual tribute the tribes were required to pay, and he led raids on Agon tribes—and sometimes even Lyucu tribes led by other princes or princesses—for cattle and slaves, though he always took care to raid far from his home territories and disguised his raiders so that they could not be traced back to him.

The traditional tactics of warfare among the scrubland tribes relied on individual courage with little coordination, but Tenryo drilled his army in coordination and obedience. He devised new fighting techniques for the garinafin riders and pushed his army to refine them through practice. Instead of each garinafin fighting and flying and breathing fire as the pilot directed on his or her own initiative, Tenryo taught the pilots to guide their mounts to fly in formation, to compensate for each other’s blind spots, and to reserve fire so that the garinafins could unleash their limited fire breath in coordinated volleys for maximal damage.

As well, he standardized the war parties riding on the backs of the garinafins. Instead of a haphazard collection of riders mostly taken from members of the same family who fought with whatever weapons they found convenient, each garinafin would have a crew of between six and two dozen. Besides the pilot, there would be lookouts, responsible for paying attention behind and to the sides of the pilot to detect new threats; shield men, responsible for protecting the pilot; and warriors with slingshots and war clubs who would focus on attacking the pilots of enemy garinafins from a distance or leaping across onto other garinafins at close range to engage in mêlée warfare. To facilitate these techniques, he standardized the type of netting draped across the backs of the garinafins as well as the saddles and harnesses.

He also devised ways for foot warriors to coordinate better with the garinafins. Sometimes the garinafins would drive the enemy toward lines of warriors on the ground so that they functioned like the mortar and pestle that the tribes used to grind up the tough nuts collected from thornbushes and annihilate the enemy between them. At other times, if his garinafins were outnumbered, he would have them feint and draw the fire of the enemy garinafins until they had used up all their charge and had to land from exhaustion, where warriors lying in ambush would overwhelm them and slaughter their riders on the ground.

He also confiscated the best weapons from every family and equipped his standing army with them. No longer would his warriors simply fight with whatever war club or slingshot they had inherited from their fathers and mothers.

“Those who are good at herding may not always be good at fighting,” he said. “We should no more make warriors herd cattle than we should force cattle-whisperers into fighting.”

When some questioned him on his unproven new organization, he replied that he was inspired by the grass-cutter ants whose large mounds dotted the scrubland. These ants chopped up blades of grass and bush leaves and carried them back into their nest, where they fermented them in underground chambers to grow a mushroom—considered a delicacy also by the people of the scrubland—that they relied on as food. These ants followed a strict hierarchical order: There was a queen who was in charge of the colony, workers who gathered the materials for the mushroom gardens and tended them, and fighters who, with their outsized mandibles, specialized in warring against rival colonies and slaughtered the enemy workers and queens and enslaved their juveniles.

“Should we not organize ourselves as intelligently as the ants do?” Tenryo asked those thanes who objected to his new innovations because they seemed against the unspoken rule that had held sway over the scrublands from time immemorial: Every family was equal to every other, and every man and woman should be able to live in peace as well as fight wars. But Tenryo held fast to his new professional army and ignored all criticisms.

Above all, he trained his warriors in the ways of absolute obedience to his command. Over and over, he told them that they should carry out his orders without hesitation; just like an ant colony, there was only one source of authority in his army, and everyone had to do what he demanded of them without hesitation.

To carry out such concentrated authority, he established a system of flag signals. Always he carried with him a collection of small war clubs affixed with the white tails taken from small plains foxes in winter. From the back of his mount, he would toss these clubs at specific targets, and wherever they landed, his warriors were directed to focus all their efforts on attacking that target without hesitation.

In other words, Tenryo had invented a new profession for the tribes of the Lyucu: soldiering.

One day, after having drilled his soldiers in yet another complex set of maneuvers, Tenryo dismounted from Kidia and walked back toward his tent. Kidia, who was now a full-grown garinafin almost a hundred feet in length from head to tail, knelt down to enjoy fresh feed and some well-deserved rest.

But after Tenryo had walked about a hundred paces away, just as his soldiers were dismounting from their own garinafins and preparing to rest after a long day of hard practice, Tenryo turned around and tossed one of the flag clubs at Kidia herself.

Everyone knew that Kidia was more like a companion than a mere mount for Tenryo. The garinafin had rescued him from certain death at the hands of the Agon, and she was so favored that Tenryo only drank Kidia’s milk.

No one made a move.

“What are you waiting for?” Tenryo shouted. “Have you forgotten all your training?”

Kidia gazed at Tenryo, her black eyes showing surprise, anger, and then finally fear. She started to beat her wings in an attempt to take off, but Tenryo had ridden her hard that day, and she couldn’t summon the strength for flight or to breath fire.

“Attack! Now!” Tenryo shouted again.

The other garinafin riders shuddered and scrambled to obey. They mounted their beasts and took off, diving at the riderless Kidia. The foot soldiers followed their training and formed a protective formation around Tenryo, raising their garinafin-hide shields to defend their lord against a final, desperate assault.

Kidia died within minutes, her body singed and torn to bloody pieces by a coordinated assault from dozens of garinafins.

Tenryo gathered all the pilots of the garinafins and the squad leaders of his foot soldiers, and ordered one in five executed as an example of the consequences of not following his orders with alacrity. The families of the executed men and women were made into slaves and distributed to the other pilots and squad leaders.

“Never question my orders,” he said. “Never.”

Then he knelt down before the carcass of Kidia and whispered, “I’m sorry, old friend. But unless I tested them with someone I loved, they’d never be as obedient as I need them. I will carry out my promise to you and avenge you and your family. May the All-Father and his faithful servant, Péa of the Winged Beasts, grant you eternal rest in the silver pasture in the heavens.”

Conflict with the Agon flared up again; both sides raided each other across the ever-shifting border between Ukyu and Gondé.

Tenryo’s army gained a reputation as the most powerful fighting force on the scrublands. In border skirmishes against the Agon, they won victory after victory, and people began to whisper that perhaps Tenryo really was the best candidate to succeed his father as pékyu after all.

Pékyu Toluroru summoned Tenryo to his own encampment for a meeting. There was no explanation for what the old pékyu wished to discuss, but rumors spread that Toluroru was unhappy with the way Tenryo had kept most of the prizes from his raiding for his own tribes instead of turning them over to the great pékyu for equitable distribution to all the tribes. Some of Tenryo’s thanes advised the young man not to go, and instead wait out the crest of his father’s displeasure.

“It is a son’s duty to attend to his father,” Tenryo said, “regardless of the consequences. Even if the father demands his son to go to the enemy and be a hostage, what right does he have to refuse the order of the man who gave him life?”

On the day of the meeting, Tenryo left his honor guard at the periphery of the great pékyu’s encampment and approached the central Great Tent by himself. Although the great pékyu had many more men and women under his command milling about the encampment, the discipline and ferocity of Tenryo’s own soldiers and garinafins, lined up in neat ranks some distance away, impressed all the tribes who had gathered to witness this meeting between father and son.

Pékyu Toluroru stood outside the door to his tent. He looked old and frail, and smiled kindly at his son, this son that he had once been willing to sacrifice. As Tenryo approached, he could dimly see through the flap of the Great Tent many warriors assembled within. Some of them had their hands on the handles of their war clubs; others had unsheathed their bone daggers. Far in the back, in the dim light of the interior, Tenryo saw the figures of some of his brothers and sisters, the ones favored by his father.

About a hundred paces from the door of the tent, Tenryo stopped.

“Father, what do you have to say to me?”

“Come into the tent, my beloved son, and we’ll share some kyoffir. We haven’t been spending nearly enough time together.”

“Why are your warriors acting as if they’re preparing for the visit of an enemy instead of a beloved son?”

Pékyu Toluroru’s face didn’t change. “Nonsense. Come into the tent and sit down. We should not be shouting at each other from so far away. Why do you regard your own father with such suspicion?”

Tenryo took Langiaboto, the battle axe he had taken from his childhood companion Diaman Aragoz, off his back. He had tied a fox tail to the end of the handle. Spinning in place to add momentum to his outstretched arm, he heaved it at his father. Everyone in the encampment followed the axe’s graceful arc of flight across the space between them.

And as one, Tenryo’s garinafin riders took to the air, while his foot soldiers rushed ahead to join their lord. Toluroru stumbled back and Langiaboto landed with a loud thud at the foot of the old chief, whose face held a look of utter disbelief. But before he could give any order, tongues of flames descended from the sky. The old chief was incinerated instantly, and the Great Tent engulfed in a fiery inferno.

The garinafins circled overhead while Tenryo’s guards surrounded him, looking fearlessly at all the stunned men and women in the encampment.

The only sounds that could be heard were the crackle of fire and the screams of those trapped within the Great Tent.

And then, a shout began among the crowd. “The pékyu is dead! Long live Pékyu Tenryo Roatan!”

And this was how Tenryo Roatan became the Great Pékyu of the Lyucu, and a new era arrived for both the lands of Ukyu and Gondé.

“Pékyu Tenryo is a ruthless and dangerous man,” said Luan Zya.

“He is. Though the stories about him have grown ever more elaborate, turning into legends full of embellishment, yet it is undeniable that he is a leader of unsurpassed vision.”

After securing his position as the leader of the Lyucu, Tenryo turned his attention to waging war against the Agon in earnest. By fighting only with a dedicated professional force using his new tactics and employing the rest of the population for support, he was able to overcome the much larger numbers of the Agon.

The day came when Pékyu Nobo knelt before him.

“When I lived in your home as a hostage, did you ever think such a day would come?” asked Tenryo.

Nobo shook his head. “Such is the way of fortune. The All-Father favors who He will. You have the allegiance of the Agon. I pledge that in my lifetime we will no longer wage war against you.” There was no shame in submitting to the stronger. Such was the way of the scrubland.

Tenryo laughed. “Do you think I’m so foolish as to repeat the mistake you made? If I leave you and yours alive, who knows what will happen in ten years? In twenty? Shall I wait until I am infirm only to kneel before one of your children in a repeat of today’s scene?”

Nobo looked up at him, his face pleading. “Do you intend to massacre us even though we have surrendered? The All-Father will not contemplate such an act of senseless evil.”

“Do not invoke the name of the All-Father,” said Tenryo. “Do not blame your failure on the All-Father, just as I do not attribute my success to Him. It is only the weak who think that the gods care about the affairs of men; the strong know that they make their own path in this world, and the gods always favor those who triumph.”

Nobo looked up at him, shocked by these words of sacrilege.

Tenryo’s guards, who surrounded the pair, looked on impassively. They showed no reaction to Tenryo’s speech because the pékyu had not told them to attack anyone. Like an ant colony, their mission was simply to obey. Until Tenryo made up his mind and told them what to do, all they needed to do was to wait and listen.

“When my father sent me to you so that my life could guarantee his safety, where was the All-Father? When I spilled the blood of your son to save my life, where was the All-Father? When I committed patricide to seize the reins of power, where was the All-Father? Every winter, hundreds of men and women die because of lack of food or shelter; where are the All-Father and His son, the Merciful Toryoana of Healing Hands? Every summer, families starve as their cattle fail to make it across the parched landscape to the next watering hole; where are the All-Father and His daughter, Aluro of a Thousand Streams? In battle, both your warriors and mine invoke the names of the All-Father and Diasa, His club-maiden, to aid their cause; who do you think they listen to?”

Nobo said nothing. These were ancient questions that he had never dared to ponder, trusting that the shamans would have the right answers.

“The All-Father, the Every-Mother, and their children do not care, no more than you or I care about the fate of the ants when we dig into their nests for a meal of mushrooms. I can only conclude that there is no good or evil in the eyes of the gods. All that they care about is success or failure. If I am mighty, I am good. If I am weak, I am evil. That is all.”

He stepped up to the figure of Nobo and crushed his skull with a single blow from Langiaboto, the Self-Reliant.

All the sons and daughters of the House of Aragoz were made to kneel in a row before the Agon Great Tent, and Tenryo walked down the row, smashing their skulls one after another. This was the most humiliating and disgraceful way to die, as the men and women could not resist, and blood spilled and soaked into the grass under the bright rays of the sun, the Eye of Cudyufin, ensuring that their souls would be forever marked with the brand of shame.

The Agon chieftains and their families were given to the Lyucu nobles as slaves, and the Agon common herders were forced to leave their home territories and move to the least desirable pastures close to the mountains in the east, the deserts in the south, or the ice fields in the north.

But the name of Tenryo was celebrated among the Lyucu. He was the greatest hero of them all, having delivered them vengeance against the hated Agon. And he had brought them a life of relative peace and prosperity.

He had understood the will of the gods better than any shaman.

“That was when we arrived,” said Oga.

^{CHAPTER FORTY-NINE} THE DREAM OF THE CITY-SHIPS

News of the sighting of the strange fleet off the coast caused much consternation among Tenryo’s thanes.

“Their ships are thousands of times bigger and more powerful than the small coracles we can construct,” said one of the advisers. “These strangers pose a danger. We should attack them as soon as they land.” She stood up and ululated, emphasizing her point by raising her war club in the air.

Many of the other nobles voiced their agreement with this opinion as they stood up and banged their war clubs against the bone poles that held up the tent.

But Tenryo ordered the assembled thanes to sit back down. “It is precisely because they may be powerful that we must not act rashly. We shall be as wily as the horrid wolves who blend into the thornbushes before a hunt.”

He ordered the garinafins moved miles away from the anticipated landing site of the strange fleet of giant ships. He made it clear that the strangers must never see any of the flying beasts until he directed otherwise.

Then he gave the strangest order of them all: Those with tents constructed from new material should disassemble them and send the hides and poles away. The only dwellings left near the landing site should appear as decrepit and worn down as possible.

The thanes were confused by these commands but did not question them. They were used to obeying the pékyu.

Led by the pékyu himself, the Lyucu welcomed the people from across the sea as honored guests. Long strips of cattle hide were laid out on the beach, and trenchers of meat and cheese and berries and nuts were brought out, along with gourds and skull-cups filled with fragrant kyoffir. The Lyucu stood well back from the surf, giving the visitors plenty of space to land.

The massive mountain-ships dropped anchor some distance away in shallow water and let down small pinnaces that carried visitors onto the beach. Pékyu Tenryo and his thanes gawped at these exotic new people: Look at how dark some of them are! Have they been sunburnt until their skin refused to heal? And why are so many of them so fat? Do they not work or fight? And look at the shapes of their eyes and noses and foreheads—who knew people could look like that?!

The visitors pulled their leaf-shaped pinnaces onto the sand and huddled around them tensely. They drew odd-looking weapons and examined the Lyucu, their postures full of fear and suspicion.

Pékyu Tenryo noted with interest how their long daggers—almost as long as war clubs—glinted and dazzled in the sun as though they were made from the reflective surfaces of placid lakes; he observed how some of them carried crescent-shaped clubs with a single string that resembled the curved lyres used by singing bards—though he suspected these were also weapons, perhaps used in conjunction with the bundles of sharp-tipped sticks they carried on their backs; he paid attention to the fact that everyone who was on the beach appeared to be a man—where were the women?—and how luxurious the objects owned by these new people were: Everything seemed to be made from the shiny, waterlike material; some kind of fabric that resembled mist or cloud made substantial; or wood.

So much wood! Pékyu Tenryo could not recall ever seeing so much wood in his entire life as existed in a single mountain-ship. Tall trees did not grow in large numbers on the scrublands; the Lyucu used the short, gnarled branches of wind-bowed bushes as firewood, and the occasional copses of real trees found next to waterholes were reserved for making luxury goods like carved cradleboards, ceremonial bowls, and statues of the gods. One had to journey many days to the east, to the foothills of the massive mountain ranges, to see a real forest. To use wood in such quantity and with such carelessness confirmed the strangers to be incredibly powerful.

He held up his hands to indicate that they were free of weapons, and led the thanes of Lyucu in a slow procession toward the people from across the sea.

After their yearlong voyage, the men of Dara who stumbled ashore were half-starved and grateful for solid land.

But they couldn’t relax yet; this land wasn’t uninhabited.

Warily, Admiral Krita and his advisers inspected the approaching natives. Their clothes, made of animal skin and woven grass, appeared dirty and crude; the weapons they left behind in a pile, made of bone and stone, looked primitive; their women were dressed just like their men and looked almost as ugly; the dwellings above the beach looked small and unimpressive; there didn’t appear to be fields of cultivation or any signs of industry around the area.

And the postures of the natives, led by their empty-handed chief, appeared submissive and humble. Krita could also see a feast laid out on the beach, filled with food that made his mouth water.

Whoever these people were, they didn’t appear to be immortals.

Krita relaxed, and told his men to stand down and put away their weapons.

The men of Dara might have thought of themselves as refugees desperately in need of baths and food that wasn’t rotten or stale, but the delicious feast prepared by the Lyucu and the ingratiating manner of their hosts made them feel like kings, or perhaps even semi-immortals. To be sure, the fermented milk drink called kyoffir made them want to throw up, but no one was expecting everything to be perfect.

“This is a gentle and harmless people,” declared Admiral Krita. And he let it be known to all his followers—just under ten thousand men and women who had survived the arduous journey—that they were free to relax and enjoy the feast.

“Dara! Dara!” they shouted while pointing at themselves. The natives seemed dim-witted, given their incomprehensible jabber, and they hoped that shouting would help.

“Savages,” said Admiral Krita. He sighed, sorry that he had not found the land of the immortals after all. Mapidéré’s expedition would just have to make the best of a bad situation.

The rest of the expedition—craftsmen, servants, maids, families of the captains and officers—came onshore as well since the coast was declared safe.

The honored guests of Dara were given everything they asked for: food, fresh water, daily entertainment, even native servants and guides for Admiral Krita and his staff. All conversation had to be conducted by miming and gestures and exaggerated expressions, but that was sufficient for the men of Dara to make their desires known.

To be sure, whenever the guests wanted to explore the surrounding countryside, the Lyucu hosts smiled with confusion at their requests and instead offered more food and that strong fermented milk drink, which the guests did not really enjoy as it upset their stomachs. But considering how primitive these people were, the men of Dara weren’t all that keen on seeing more tents full of half-dressed savages or more stinking herds of long-haired cattle.

It was clear that these barbarians didn’t know anything about immortals. The expedition members, surrounded daily by admiring glances and expressions of amazement, began to feel as if they were the lords of all creation.

They became ever more arrogant toward their hosts, demanding more food, service, and the company of women—whether willing or not. When a few of Krita’s men acted out their base instincts on some of the native women—Mapidéré’s expedition was mostly staffed by men—the insulted women, one of whom was a Lyucu chieftain, reacted with anger and brought their friends and followers to demand justice with clubs and axes drawn.

Krita decided that a show of force was necessary, and, instead of retreating to the city-ships with the offending members of the expedition, he ordered the marines to stand their ground and do whatever was necessary to defend the Dara camp.

The result was a one-sided slaughter. The Lyucu had never fought against metal weapons or bows and arrows, and seventeen Lyucu warriors lay dead at the end of the skirmish while only one of Krita’s men was injured. Still, Krita was keenly aware of how vastly outnumbered his side was, and he ordered everyone to retreat onto the city-ships and prepare to set sail if the situation deteriorated further.

But Pékyu Tenryo came personally to apologize, kneeling on the beach and begging for Krita to return. Thinking that he had impressed the barbaric chief with that display of force, Krita agreed, over the objection of some of his more cautious advisers.

“These people do not even know the use of metal,” Krita said contemptuously. “What risk do they really pose? They must be terrified of us! In a way, we have found paradise—we are the immortals here, almost like gods to these people!”

In truth, the Lyucu did know about metal, but it was a resource that they rarely had access to except in the form of occasional lumps found lying on the scrubland, supposedly the remnants of fallen stars. Only the most powerful Lyucu chieftains and the pékyu himself had crude metal jewelry formed by hammering these lumps into various decorative shapes.

Krita now demanded that the Lyucu acknowledge the suzerainty of Dara and Emperor Mapidéré, with himself as the emperor’s personal representative. The pékyu readily acquiesced and treated Krita as his lord and master.

The Lyucu thanes were outraged and stared at their king in disbelief, but Pékyu Tenryo’s authority was such that not a single person objected.

Next, Krita demanded that the Lyucu supply his troops with feminine company—the lack of which was the cause of the unpleasantness in the first place. Again, the pékyu immediately agreed and ordered several of his female chieftains and their daughters to undertake the task personally.

Once again, Tenryo’s thanes were shocked by the servile behavior of their chief, but once again they obeyed him without question.

The will of this people has been broken, thought Krita. A little demonstration of force goes a long way with savages. In some ways, he even admired the flexibility of Pékyu Tenryo. His people were confronted by a race whose might they could not match, and the barbarian king had chosen wisely to submit rather than to resist uselessly.

The Lyucu began to fall sick. The strange new disease was not like anything the tribes had experienced before. People coughed, boils appeared on their skins, and many died. Every family mourned because every family lost someone.

But the visitors from Dara seemed immune from the plague.

Many began to whisper that this was a punishment from the All-Father and Every-Mother for Pékyu Tenryo’s craven behavior.

Pékyu Tenryo executed those who spread such rumors. He reminded his thanes that he had guided them to victory over the Agon, and he would lead them on a new path that, in time, they would come to understand.

Eventually, people stopped dying. “We have become more like them,” said Tenryo. And it was not clear if he meant it as a lament or a celebration.

“The story you’ve told me so far is nothing like what I’ve heard from the Lyucu,” said Luan.

“You’ll soon understand why,” said Oga.

To further ingratiate himself with his new masters, Tenryo followed the men from Dara around like a lapdog, trying to anticipate their needs and giving them everything they might desire.

The Lyucu warriors gazed at their king with utter contempt, but he seemed to pay them no heed.

Since just nodding and smiling all the time bored the “Lords of Dara”—the moniker began as a joke among Krita’s officers, but they rather liked the way it sounded, even though none of them were important enough back home to rank among true nobles—Tenryo peppered them with questions conveyed by gestures and exaggerated facial expressions. He mimed that he wanted to hear stories about how the great city-ships were built, and he promised to be delighted and awed if his masters would show him how the ships actually sailed.

Admiral Krita decided to take advantage of their new faithful servants by squeezing everything possible out of them. With elaborate pictures and lots of pointing and shouting, Krita and his captains managed to explain to Tenryo that they needed lumber to repair the city-ships after weathering the long voyage. They had noticed the absence of suitable trees in the country and, though not very hopeful, decided to try to see if the barbarian chief had any ideas.

Tenryo nodded and bowed and smiled. Secretly, he dispatched teams of garinafins and riders to the distant mountains in the east to collect lumber. This was not something the tribes had ever done, and many expressed doubts about the wisdom of breaking with tradition, but Tenryo would not be persuaded.

When the teams returned after weeks of strenuous labor, Tenryo had the chopped trees dropped into the sea so that the tides carried them in like so much flotsam, and then he made a big production of waking Krita up in the middle of night, literally jumping up and down and joyously proclaiming his delight.

Although Krita was irritated to be woken up from his dreams, he was delighted to find so many excellent logs piled up on the moonlit beach. By now, Tenryo had picked up enough broken bits of Dara vernacular that Krita finally understood that the ecstatic barbarian chief was celebrating the fact that the gods of Dara had delivered the wood as a miracle. Though Krita had never been particularly religious, drifting over the sea for almost a year without knowing whether he was going to live or die had a way of changing attitudes. He piously thanked the gods and now viewed Pékyu Tenryo, who had delivered the exciting news, as some sort of exotic native good-luck charm.

Up to this point, Krita and his captains had taken care to keep the natives away from the city-ships in order not to reveal too much information about themselves. However, good-luck charms were harmless, beloved, and trusted, and Hujin Krita now brushed aside urgings of caution from his advisers and allowed the barbarians, especially the good-looking women, to come aboard the city-ships to better serve their Dara masters and lovers.

He began to forget where he was, so much did he enjoy the hospitality of these rather primitive, but innocent, savages.

Tenryo and a group of high-ranked thanes now seemed to spend every waking moment with Admiral Krita and his officers, admiring their clothes, their bowls and eating sticks, their jewelry and musical instruments. Aboard the city-ships, Tenryo and his nobles acted like children delighted by a magic wonderland, and they begged Krita and his retinue to teach them the language of Dara and the uses of the wondrous machines and gadgets around them.

The women who had been assigned the duty of caring for these Lords of Dara—several of them high-ranking thanes—took to their task with special zeal, and were solicitous of their men’s pleasure in every manner. They were impressed by almost anything and everything the men of Dara did and eagerly learned to adopt the customs and artifice of Dara—makeup, courtly dance, coquettish looks—

—much to the annoyance of the wives of Dara who had accompanied their officer husbands on this expedition. They suggested to the men, pointedly, that the giggles of awe in the bedrooms and the enthusiastic screams of joy everywhere else emitted by these barbarian women were perhaps not completely believable.

“Why is it implausible that the native women would fall in love with the Lords of Dara?” scoffed Admiral Krita when these complaints came to his attention. “When these barbarian girls are properly cleaned up, they look quite fetching! Surely the love of beauty and admiration for nobility are universal among the weaker sex. These poor girls! All their lives they’ve only known smelly, savage barbarian men who don’t know anything about refined manners, romantic poetry, or the delicate arts of love that are the fruits of civilization. They’ve only worn rough fur instead of smooth silk; they’ve only drunk revolting fermented milk instead of fragrant, rose-scented tea; they’ve only known a terrible life in which they’re forced to herd cattle and fight off thieves along with the men, instead of a life of gentle leisure suitable for proper ladies. If I were one of these women, I’d fall for me too!”

Of course, when some of the women of Dara requested that Lyucu men be assigned to them—surely when these savage men were cleaned up, their lives spent in rough and hard labor in fresh air and open sun ought to have produced fetching bodies too?—Admiral Krita denied the demands immediately as incompatible with the teachings of Kon Fiji and other sages.

Undaunted by ridicule or loss of face even when he knew only a few phrases, Tenryo made rapid progress in learning the vernacular of Dara, but when Krita and his officers asked to study the language of the Lyucu, Tenryo explained (in halting, awkward, but ever-improving Dara speech) that as the Lyucu were so far behind Dara in refinement and civilized progress, he did not wish to sully the superior intellect of his lords with the primitive speech of the people of the scrubland.

As the Lyucu helped Admiral Krita repair his ships and resupply them for an eventual journey back to Dara, Tenryo proposed that progress would be sped up if the craftsmen and engineers of Dara would take on Lyucu apprentices to perform less skilled work. This was readily assented to, and the shipwrights, carpenters, and smiths of the exploration fleet worked with crews of Lyucu apprentices, teaching them their art. After the city-ships were mostly repaired, Tenryo discovered yet another supply of lumber in a cove not far from where the city-ships were anchored.

“The gods know that the honored Lords of Dara will surely depart one day to continue the magnificent task of finding the immortals. Perhaps they think it would be useful for the Lyucu to help you construct more ships to prepare for unknown dangers in the sea?… Though it is of course difficult to see what dangers could not be overcome by the Lords of Dara, surely almost like the immortals themselves.”

Cradled and caressed and kissed by four beautiful Lyucu thanes with long blond tresses, Krita approved Tenryo’s request to have the shipwrights teach the Lyucu how to build ships after the fashion of Dara. They wouldn’t be city-ships—the shipwrights explained that they lacked the equipment and shipyard facilities to undertake such a massive project—but they would be sturdy, seaworthy ships far better than the coracles of the Lyucu.

Truth be told, Admiral Krita had little appetite to brave the seas again. After the terrors of the long journey to Ukyu, he really wanted nothing more than this happy life where all his needs were taken care of by Pékyu Tenryo and he could spend almost every hour in the company of a string of lovely, exotic mistresses whose athletic bodies showed him heights of pleasure he had never imagined. Once in a while he thought of his old friend Ronaza Métu, and felt a twinge of guilt as he suspected that Emperor Mapidéré had already carried out his threat against him. But if that was so, wasn’t it even more incumbent on him to enjoy this life for both of them?

Most of his senior staff agreed. Their Lyucu mistresses demonstrated great curiosity about everything having to do with Dara—a natural reaction of barbarians confronted by a superior civilization—and the men rather enjoyed playing the role of fonts of wisdom, regaling their companions in bed with all kinds of lectures about the history, geography, science, and politics of Dara. To the delight of many of these Lords of Dara, the women seemed especially impressed with tales of the martial prowess of their homeland, and asked the men to explain in detail the brilliant field tactics of these legendary generals and to demonstrate the proper way to use the terrible, fancy weapons of Dara. They giggled coquettishly—the way the Lords of Dara had taught them—while watching these men huff and puff through weapons drills, cooing appreciatively when one of the men overexerted himself and had to take a break from swinging a steel sword or drawing a heavy bow.

The women seemed rather disappointed when bladesmiths and fletchers explained that they could not make more steel swords and bronze arrowheads unless they discovered easily mined sources of metal. The ingots carried by the city-ships would only suffice for a few replacements. It struck some of the men as a bit unseemly that women would be so interested in weapons, but the Lords of Dara blamed the wild nature of barbaric life for such unfeminine behavior.

Even though Krita refused to permit any of the Dara women on his expedition—hired by the fleet as servants, cooks, seamstresses, sailmakers, fisherwomen, and so on, as well as the families of the senior command staff—from “enjoying” the company of the Lyucu men, this was a prohibition that grew increasingly hard to enforce over time as the Lyucu and expedition members mingled freely. The Lyucu lovers Dara women took on were equally curious about that distant, magical land, where words could be frozen into marks on paper and where wind and water could be commanded to push wheels and sails and do useful work.

The stories the Dara women told their lovers, of course, had a distinctly different flavor than the stories told by the men—for one thing, Admiral Krita and his command staff appeared much less heroic in these stories than in their own tellings. The women shared with Lyucu men the sort of knowledge that these “Lords of Dara” were unfamiliar with—the actual lives of ordinary families, practical geography, and how the real Lords of Dara appeared to those whose lives were decidedly less grand.

As the days went on, Admiral Krita and his senior staff grew even more indolent and more reluctant to leave their comfortable position as quasi-kings of Lyucu, worshipped by everyone from Pékyu Tenryo down. Luckily, the pékyu kept on coming up with new reasons for them to tarry.

Perhaps the Lords of Dara would like to make more metal weapons with Lyucu aid? Or how about teaching and training Lyucu sailors to help when the expedition fleet decides to resume its journey? Maybe the Lyucu craftsmen, some of whom are now fairly skilled under the tutelage of Dara masters, could help re-create some of the wonders the Lords of Dara have spoken of in their homeland?

Admiral Krita nodded. “An excellent plan, Pékyu Tenryo! If only Emperor Mapidéré knew that he had such a faithful servant across the seas!”

Pékyu Tenryo bowed so deeply that Krita could not see his face.

Krita became more tyrannical and whimsical in his demands. He no longer referred to himself as the personal representative of Mapidéré, but demanded that the Lyucu address him as the emperor himself.

Some members of his expedition, especially the scholars, became uneasy.

“It is not right that we should treat this people, who have welcomed us, as though they’re our slaves,” they pleaded with him. “This is hardly the behavior of a truly civilized people. If they deal with us as brothers, we should deal with them the same.”

Krita scoffed at these objections. In his imagination, he was a miniature version of Emperor Mapidéré, fated to rule over this benighted, though docile, people. The gods of Dara had given him a gift: this new domain that was his to mold and sculpt. He would lift this people out of ignorance and give them the benefits of civilization.

Unlike the savages of Tan Adü, who resisted being cultivated and reined in by the wisdom of Dara, these savages of the new world were eminently teachable. He began to dream of his descendants ruling over this people far into the future, and he started to plan for a palace—it would be grand and circular (for wasn’t a circle the height of perfection, like himself?), made out of the highest quality wood, even if this land seemed to have so little supply of it—as well as which of his many mistresses he would make into the lucky consorts he would install into this pleasure dome.

Then, one morning, Krita woke up and found his hands and feet bound. His two favorite Lyucu mistresses, Nolon and Kya, stood at the foot of his bed, holding his sword and bow.

“What sort of joke is this?” asked Krita.

But Nolon, who had always been so submissive, smiled coldly at him. “We’ve learned all we need from you.” There was something odd about the way she spoke in the vernacular of Dara: There was no trace of coquettishness in it at all.

“What are you talking about?” Krita struggled against his bounds and found the strong sinews to give not an inch. “Untie me immediately! When Tenryo finds out about this, he’s going to kill everyone in your families, you damned whore—”

Kya, who had never once before thwarted his will, stepped up and slapped him hard across the face, silencing him immediately. “Pékyu Tenryo gave the order this morning. As of this moment, all your commanders have been trussed up just like you, and Lyucu warriors are boarding every ship and taking over. The only people who’ll be killed are your followers who refuse to surrender.”

It wasn’t until they had dragged him out of the cabin, loaded him onto a pinnace, and marched him onto land so that he could join the other captured “Lords of Dara” that Krita’s disbelief was dispelled.

He and his senior command staff hung their heads in shame, finally realizing that they had all been taken in by the wily and patient barbarian king.

By the time the sun had completely risen, almost all the city-ships of the expedition fleet had been captured. Most of the captains and senior officers had been incapacitated by their Lyucu lovers in sleep, and of the few who had awakened in time to try to put up some sort of resistance, the Lyucu women overcame them easily, as they had seen the men’s fighting techniques in great detail and worked out countermoves ahead of time.

Using the officers as hostages, the women had forced the sailors and marines to drop down rope ladders and welcome aboard the Lyucu warriors who rowed out to the anchored ships in coracles and pinnaces. The Dara encampment onshore, of course, had been overrun before dawn.

Of the fifty city-ships in the expedition fleet, only two had captains who refused to give in and commanded their crews to resist to the utmost. They were killed, but the sailors were able to overwhelm the Lyucu women and lift anchor in an attempt to escape from this sudden turn of events.

They barely managed to get about a mile away before the great garinafins rose over the horizon and fell on them like Mingén falcons diving for fish. Soon, the two ships were nothing more than two burning wrecks, and sailors who hadn’t been incinerated were crying desperately for rescue in the churning sea, begging to surrender to the Lyucu.

An astonished Krita finally understood how utterly foolish he had been.

The former Lords of Dara were packed into underground cellars while Pékyu Tenryo gathered his warriors to announce his plans.

“This is a gift from the All-Father, brothers and sisters,” declared Tenryo. “It is the best gift from Him since the time He created the lands of Ukyu and Gondé, since He placed us and the Agon in this world to test our faith.

“Our land is beautiful—who can deny the thrill of watching a sunset from the back of a soaring garinafin?—but it is also harsh and difficult. All of you have known grandmothers and grandfathers choosing to stay behind to die in times of drought so that the tribe could move on without being burdened with their needs. All of you have known mothers forced to decide which child to feed when there is not enough for all and she must maintain her strength for the migration. All of you have seen fathers beat their chests in despair when a pack of horrid wolves, a plague, or even a flash flood wipes out the family’s herd, their livelihood. The scrubland is unforgiving, and we live ever at the mercy of forces beyond our ken or control.

“And the wars. Who can forget the wars? The wars between the Agon and the Lyucu are still fresh in our memories, but long before our peoples had coalesced into nations, the tribes have fought each other, as did families. I doubt there has been a single day in the history of this land when it was completely at peace. How many men and women have lost their lives in the struggle for survival? It was either kill or be killed because this land, though vast, can provide but for so few.

“It was not always so. Late at night, next to the fire pits and after everyone has had their fill of kyoffir, the elders tell stories of our past. We know from these old tales, the waystones of our spirit, that long ago our ancestors lived in a land that was lush and green, a paradise. There, the rivers flowed with honey and milk, and the bushes were heavy with soft, juicy berries, not the hard nuts that break teeth. In that land, the cattle calved each spring without fail, and there were no wolves to steal from us. Our ancestors dined on plenty and every parent could have as many children as they wished, not having to worry about how many they could keep alive. War was unknown because there was enough for everyone, from the oldest grandmother who had lost all her teeth, to the mewling babe yet to chew her first piece of fatty marrow.

“Our ancestors then angered the All-Father somehow. The stories of the different tribes do not agree on this. Some say that it was because they stole the special kyoffir that the All-Father kept for his immortal children, the purified spirits who dwell in the mountains and clouds and whom we worship. Some say that it was because they had become slothful and arrogant due to their life of leisure and ease, and they disobeyed the All-Father’s command to keep the celestial herd well-watered and fed. Some say that it was because they had forgotten the virtues instilled in them by the All-Father and fell to greed and internecine strife.

“Whatever the reason, the All-Father cast us out of paradise and placed us here so that our lives may be hard and our faith sharpened by suffering.

“But now we have learned something new and momentous. The All-Father has prepared another land for us, a new paradise called Dara. Have you heard the stories the savages of Dara tell? Over there, the rivers overflow with delicious wine—kyoffir made from fruit!—and fat fish practically leap out of the water onto your plates. The fields are so green and lush that they could feed all of us and our cattle and garinafins even if we were as numerous as the stars in the sky! Families there may have a dozen children, a dozen! And the old die peacefully in sleep while the young honor their memories by multiplying and being fruitful. Luxury greets you everywhere you look: shiny metal poking out of the ground; great, sky-clawing trees arrayed in dense forests; sparkling jewels dangling from every ear and neck like ripe berries.

“That is the land that we should live in.

“ ‘But Pékyu Tenryo,’ I hear some of you say. ‘That land is already inhabited.’

“That’s right. But look at what manner of inhabitants they are: arrogant, soft, lazy, devoid of virtue. They arrived at our shores as terrified refugees who had almost run out of food and water. We took them in as honored guests, shared our food and kyoffir with them, offered them all they needed.

“And for this hospitality, how have they repaid us? They acted as though they belonged to the race of immortal spirits, though they knew perfectly well that they were but ordinary mortals like you or me. They deliberately infected us with sicknesses previously unknown in this land… please forgive me for my tears, but who can forget the piteous cries of fathers holding their disease-stricken daughters or the howls of sons cradling the bodies of their illness-ravished mothers? Barbaric in their customs—consider how they degrade their women!—they dared to call us savages and insulted our women, many of them thanes and chiefs, as well as the wives, mothers, sisters, and daughters of our men. They slaughtered our warriors with better weapons and think that makes them superior—but the measure of a warrior is in her spirit, not her tool.

“So we bided our time; we hid our strengths to lure them into revealing their weaknesses; we pretended to submit so that we could observe them up close and learn their secrets. What have we learned?

“They have no concept of honor and lie constantly to make themselves appear greater and more powerful. Effete and stupid, they understand only the language of violence—they thought they could intimidate us with their metal swords and vibrating bows, and yet when our garinafin riders appeared, all they could do was to cower in fear without even putting up a real fight. Though we followed the custom of the scrublands and opened our tents and hearts to strangers, sharing all that we possessed with them, they sought only to dominate and enslave us.

“No, the All-Father could not have meant for such a barbarous race to possess paradise. Rather, He sent these savages to us as a message, telling us that He has prepared a new home for us already filled with slaves.

“Do you not see how these indolent, arrogant men sound so similar to the fallen ancestors in our ancient tales? They have squandered their fortune, wallowing like greedy calves in muddy puddles, not knowing that winter is around the corner. We are the instruments of the All-Father, meant to cleanse that land of these ingrates. We are the punishment for their sins. We’re the divine scourge.

“Brothers and sisters, we have a mission. We shall conquer Dara and enslave these people until their spirits are purified of the diseases they call civilization, until we have redeemed paradise for the All-Father’s favorite children.”

And the scrublands were filled with the ululating war cries of a thousand warriors calling for blood, for cosmic justice and sacred war.

And so the Lords of Dara overnight became the captives of the Lyucu, and a nightmarish stage of existence began for them. The prisoners were forced to divulge every bit of information that could be useful to their new masters in planning their invasion of the Dara homeland.

Although the technologies brought by the city-ships were interesting, Pékyu Tenryo quickly decided that most of them were not practical for adoption by the Lyucu. Ukyu and Gondé were simply too different from the Islands of Dara, and it was no more sensible for the Lyucu to adopt the way of life of Dara than it would be for a desert cactus to be transplanted to the glaciers of the far north. The bronze and steel swords wielded by Krita and his officers were certainly stronger than bone axes and clubs, but Lyucu had no known source of iron or copper, and the supply brought by the city-ships would be quickly exhausted. Likewise, the scrublands lacked the wood to supply fletchers with arrow shafts, and stone arrowheads would be no better than slingshots.

Pékyu Tenryo did not think it wise to adopt a new mode of warfare that relied on weapons that the Lyucu could not replenish, and so he decided to focus on learning as much as he could about the fighting techniques of the Islands of Dara so that they could be countered.

An arena with walls made from garinafin bones was constructed—using the slave labor of the men of Dara, of course—and afterward Krita and his men were forced to spend their days inside the arena fighting against the warriors of Lyucu from sunup to sundown, so that Tenryo could study how the men of Dara waged war.

From Cocru sword dances to Faça infantry formations, the pékyu studied everything and carefully noted the weaknesses of each technique. Officers and soldiers were coerced to describe past battles in excruciating detail so that the general patterns of Dara military thinking could be discerned.

Krita eventually suffered a wound that became infected in one of these meaningless mock battles—an infection that the doctors who had come along on the expedition could not cure as they lacked the herbs native to Dara. As Krita lay in a feverish delirium before death, he could be heard to mutter words of love for Nolon and Kya, the Lyucu thanes who had beguiled him and then captured him, as well as prayers to the gods for Dara to take him to the land of immortals.

The women and other noncombatants—craftsmen and craftswomen, traders, navigators, sailors, cooks, maids, doctors—from Dara were not spared either. They were made to fill in details of Dara society that the Lyucu had not already learned: how roads were constructed; how villages were organized; how Imperial power was wielded by Mapidéré in Pan and how the ordinary people felt its effects. Tenryo understood that he would have to conquer a much larger population with a small force, and even with the advantage provided by the garinafin riders, controlling such a population required some understanding of the motivations and patterns of life, which had to be exploited to benefit an occupying force.

Oga presented a special case. At first, upon being informed that he was a fisherman, Tenryo decided that Oga’s knowledge was of limited use. Fishing was not an important source of food for most Lyucu, and the species of fish common in Dara were different from the common species near the coast of Ukyu and Gondé, with Dara fishing techniques often inapplicable. Oga was thus assigned the most menial tasks.

But Tenryo’s thanes then noticed that Oga was the center of attention for gatherings of captives. After a long day’s hard labor, he entertained them with lively tales and kept their spirits up. Some thanes became suspicious of Oga, fearing that he might become the leader of a secret revolt.

Tenryo decided that he would listen to Oga’s stories himself. For several nights in a row, disguised as a simple Lyucu slave overseer, he sat on the very edge of the crowd of captives from Dara gathered around the fire, listening to Oga’s performances.

Oga’s tales were not mere retellings of legends from Dara; instead, he spun embellished tales of their journey here to Ukyu and Gondé. Though he was unlettered, he had a natural storyteller’s gift for craft and invention. He spoke of the wonder of the Wall of Storms, of pods of whales and crubens at sea, of the immortals who lived amongst the spinning stars, of fantastical creatures and princes who inhabited new lands. He had even picked up bits of the Lyucu tongue and learned some of their stories, which he wove into fantastic tapestries of savage daring and dauntless cunning.

Tenryo was mesmerized. Oga was a man who had somehow managed to marry the sophistication of Dara’s storytellers with the raw materials gathered from a new land. He was telling Dara-style epics using the setting and values of the land of his captivity.

And so the great pékyu ordered Oga into his own service. “You will accompany me everywhere I go and see everything I see. Like your court historians who wrote down the deeds of the Lords of Dara, you will be my biographer, the architect of my living monument, a story to instruct a thousand ages.”

Of course, every captive from Dara was also used to teach the Lyucu their language. Pékyu Tenryo’s young children were brought up to speak it—it was essential to understand the thoughts of a foreign people if the Lyucu were to rule over them.

As the captives exhausted their store of useful information, pressure intensified. Torture became routine, and the daily drills in the arena became more relentless. Some of the captives died from disease or injuries, and others took their own lives. Even in death, however, their suffering did not end. Their children—whether born to marriages among the captives or from couplings between the Lyucu and their slaves—were enslaved in their place. The cursed blood of Dara doomed them to the same fate as their parents, though a few of the mixed-blood children were raised as full members of the Lyucu tribes if their mothers or fathers were powerful thanes.

Two years after landing, nine out of ten of the men and women who had arrived in Ukyu in the city-ships were dead.

The first light of dawn filtered through the bars at the top of the tunnel, dimly illuminating the inside of the dark cell.

“I cannot imagine how much you have suffered in the ensuing nineteen years,” said Luan Zya. Not a single thing Cudyu and Vadyu had told him was true. He hoped against hope that the old man’s survival meant that the Lyucu had abandoned their mad quest to sail across the ocean to wage war.

“Has it already been nineteen years?” muttered Oga Kidosu. “So many friends… maimed, beaten, then dead. So many times I’ve wanted to die, but I wanted to see home one last time….”

To conquer Dara, first the Lyucu had to find a way back to it.

Pékyu Tenryo understood that the path Krita’s fleet had followed, which depended on the strong oceanic current, was a dead end. Even the city-ships could not do much against the powerful pull of the current, and sailing “upriver,” as it were, seemed an impossible dream. Tenryo thus dedicated himself to the task of figuring out a new way back to Dara.

By carefully examining the navigational logs of the city-ships and skilled application of torture to the Dara navigators—who had been spared so far for this purpose—Tenryo was able to obtain an approximate idea of the location of the Islands of Dara. Ever cautious, he decided to send out a small scouting expedition whose only goal was to confirm the location of the Islands.

Instead of using the captured city-ships, which he intended to use to transport his invasion force, Tenryo built a small exploratory fleet based on traditional Lyucu seafaring designs enhanced with the knowledge of Dara shipwrights.

Though the Lyucu and the Agon were both nomadic peoples living on the backs of garinafins across the scrubland, some tribes had settled along the coast and were skilled with navigating the sea in more advanced craft than the small coracles that Luan Zya had seen. Some of these craft were constructed out of multiple circular coracle hulls connected together with a bone-lattice frame, and garinafin hide, which was both waterproof and fire-resistant, was then stretched over it to form a platform. Animal bladders filled with air were then attached to the lattice to provide additional flotation. These keelless craft were very shallow-drafting by design, but they were surprisingly stable on the sea, though they did not have anywhere near the capacity of the city-ships and transporting any garinafins was out of the question.

A fleet of these Lyucu ships, augmented with a few Dara-style ships constructed by the Lyucu as learning projects while Admiral Krita was still alive, were dispatched and sailed due west to try to find the Islands of Dara. The Lyucu had never sailed that far into the ocean, believing that the ocean extended in that direction as a featureless, endless expanse. Most voyages by Lyucu ships in the past had been coastal, transporting goods for trade or warriors for raids. But now that they knew there was land beneath the horizon, the men and women aboard were eager and expectant.

Only one of the ships returned, more than a year later, with news that the path west was impassable. The fleet had managed to cross the ocean current in its slow-moving portion, just as recorded in Krita’s logs; it had then come into sight of the Wall of Storms, also reported by Krita.

The survivors spoke of a curtain made of cyclones that rose from the sea to the sky. For months, the ships sailed north and south in the hopes of locating an opening, but none could be found. Frustrated, the fleet commander ordered the ships to try to brave the cyclones head-on, but the storms were so furious that all the other Lyucu ships had perished, and this one barely escaped in time. Thereafter, one of the cyclones had left the wall and seemed to gain a will of its own as it pursued the surviving ship for days like a cat toying with a mouse. It was only by pure luck that the ship managed to escape and return to tell the tale.

The pékyu had to give up his dream, the terrified survivors explained, for paradise seemed to be guarded by furious demons of the sea and the air.

But Tenryo did not give up. He had the survivors executed for cowardice and disobedience—he had told them to find a passage to the Islands of Dara, not to come crawling back with excuses for why it couldn’t be done.

A second fleet was dispatched to complete the task that the first could not finish.

“Absolute obedience!” thundered Pékyu Tenryo. “Remember that.”

This fleet suffered a fate even worse than its predecessor, for not a single ship returned after a year. Some of Tenryo’s most trusted thanes grumbled that the pékyu’s uncompromising style of command probably taught the members of the second fleet that it was better to leave and find some uninhabited island to live out the rest of their days than to face certain death, either at the Wall of Storms or at the hands of the pékyu.

The pékyu had to accept that his plan to conquer Dara was but an unfulfillable dream and spoke no more of it.

The surviving captives were distributed to the tribes as ordinary slaves, and the Lyucu resumed their nomadic life across the scrubland, visions of paradise seemingly forgotten. The fleet of city-ships remained anchored next to the shore, guarded by a detachment of the Lyucu army along with about a dozen garinafins. From time to time, the Agon, who had been forced into parts of the scrubland with the harshest conditions, revolted, and Tenryo would lead expeditions to put down these rebellions. But for the most part, life seemed to return to its familiar rhythm for most of the people of the scrubland.

And then, five years after the second fleet had left, pieces of wreckage washed ashore on the coast of Ukyu and Gondé. The designs carved into the bone spars proved beyond a doubt that they came from the second fleet.

However, although the fleet had departed from Ukyu and sailed northwest, the wreckage came in from the southeast.

“That was the clue that solved the mystery of the current for me,” said Luan.

“Clue?”

Luan explained that Cudyu and Vadyu had asked him to find a way back to Dara, and he had gone over the records they showed him in great detail. The direction and timing of the wreckage had led to the breakthrough.

“It is a circle,” he muttered. “The great oceanic current moves in a circle.”

“That was Pékyu Tenryo’s conclusion as well,” said Oga Kidosu. “The current that had carried us here is like a serpent that had swallowed its tail. Had Admiral Krita continued to follow the current even as it slowed down near the coast of Ukyu, we would have been carried back to the Islands of Dara.”

“Zomi, your daughter, and I might have found pieces of the wreckage from the same fleet,” Luan said. And he told Oga about the incredible vision Zomi had seen as a young child and how his own interest in exploring far to the north had been kindled by the mysterious artifacts carved with stylized designs of the garinafins.

“So Mapidéré’s expedition inspired Pékyu Tenryo’s fleets, which brought you here in a roundabout way,” marveled Oga Kidosu. “What an amazing series of coincidences.”

“As roundabout as the great oceanic current that connects us all,” said Luan Zya. “Perhaps fate is made up of such coincidences when we gaze back at the path of our lives.”

Oga shook his head and chuckled. “I’m not much of a philosopher. What I can tell you is that the wreckage of that second fleet made Pékyu Tenryo think that there was a northwest passage to Dara. The invasion fleet would have to sail to the northwest, pick up the current again, and follow it until arriving in Dara. Pékyu Tenryo’s dream of the grand conquest of paradise was revived.

“He sent out a third fleet to ascertain the route, this time with strict orders not to take unnecessary risks so that useful information could be obtained. This expedition returned in a year with reports that the current did indeed bring them north of Dara, where the coracles had to struggle mightily to depart from its pull.

“But the Wall of Storms was also there—”

“—as both of us well know,” interrupted Luan Zya with a light chuckle.

“The storms that made up the wall there moved chaotically and threatened to destroy all ships that approached. Though this third expedition tarried for over three months near the Wall, they could not find a way through. It was likely another rash attempt to break through the Wall by force that had caused the demise of the second expedition.

“From the far-flung tribes over the scrubland, Pékyu Tenryo rounded up the survivors of Admiral Krita’s fleet and imprisoned all of us.”

“Because the pékyu wanted to find out your secret for passing through the Wall of Storms?” Luan asked.

Oga nodded wearily. “No matter how many times we tried to explain that we had passed through the Wall purely as a matter of luck, without any knowledge of how it worked, the pékyu refused to believe us. The tortures were relentless, and some of the prisoners, unable to tolerate the pain, made up answers.

“These supposed navigation tricks, of course, were proven to be false during subsequent expeditions, and so the men responsible were executed.

“For years, I had been composing the epic of Pékyu Tenryo—you have been hearing snippets of it. It was a way to survive, and I was fascinated by Tenryo, hoping that I could mitigate against his life of brutality and conquest with a fictionalized account that sought virtue, much as Tututika was said to hold up magical mirrors to men and women that showed them as better than they were, thereby driving them to improve themselves.

“But I could no longer hold my tongue in the face of such horror. I composed a new chapter that showed him exactly as he was: a man who thought he was dreaming a grand dream but who only bestowed nightmares upon all. The pékyu was enraged, and I was dismissed from his presence and tossed here to meditate upon the errors of my ways. I have lost count of the days spent in this sunless dungeon.

“I’m the very last survivor of those who came from Dara, and as you can see, I do not think I will last much longer.”

Luan Zya closed his eyes and reviewed his entire experience since coming to shore. Everything had been a lie.

The Lyucu had likely figured out that he was a scholar of some skill based on Gitré Üthu and the remnants of his kite-raft, and then concocted an elaborate ruse. They had constructed the mass graves and manufactured an alternative history of the relationship between Dara and the Lyucu. Taking advantage of his instincts as a teacher and his vulnerability in the wake of his harrowing journey, Cudyu and Vadyu had deceived him into helping them figure out a way to lead a fleet back to the Islands of Dara.

Instead of delivering the bodies of the dead members of Krita’s expedition, the fleet would carry an invading army and bring death to tens of thousands.

Though the Lyucu already knew the oceanic current went around in a circle, they did not reveal that fact to Luan. That was probably a test to see if Luan really was skilled or merely someone who thought highly of himself without possessing real knowledge, like so many of the “Lords of Dara.”

The puzzle they couldn’t figure out was how to get through the Wall of Storms, and that was the real task they had given Luan. They wanted to make him into an accessory in the greatest calamity to ever befall Dara.

Luan shuddered. They had almost succeeded.

The Wall of Storms, like the cicadas who emerged from the earth only in certain years or eclipses of the sun and the moon, followed patterns. Over time, passages of varying length and stability would open in it. He had finally worked out a model that fit all the observed data, and using the model, it was possible to predict the next stable opening in the Wall that would allow an invasion fleet to sail through.

And he had written out the calculations in Gitré Üthu, left in the tent that he shared with Cudyu and Vadyu. He had to get back before the answer fell into the hands of the Lyucu.

As Luan rushed to climb back up the tunnel to the surface, the bone-grate door at the top slammed shut.

“Luan Zya.” The voice of Prince Cudyu drifted down the tunnel. It was cold and devoid of the respect that he had always demonstrated to Luan. “Your attempt to commit treason has been uncovered.”

^{CHAPTER FIFTY} HOMECOMING

Luan Zya’s calculations yielded the date of the next stable break in the Wall of Storms to the north of Dara. In order to make that date, the invasion fleet would have to set off from Ukyu almost a year ahead of time.

This meant that preparations for the greatest invasion in the history of the people of the scrublands had to start right away.

The great city-ships had to be adapted to transport garinafins as well as Lyucu warriors, and sufficient supplies and feed had to be gathered to last a year. In the end, a total of sixty garinafins and five thousand warriors would join the expedition led by the pékyu himself, which was intended to establish a base in Dara. Tenryo’s oldest son, Cudyu Roatan, would be left in charge of the kingdom. Once the base was secured and the population of Dara subjugated, more of the Lyucu tribes would be ferried over to their new home.

The success of this audacious plan hinged upon having not just a single date, but a series of future dates for when the Wall of Storms would open up a passage stable enough for the crossing of the fleet. The ships would have to make many trips between the two lands.

Despite the cleverness of Cudyu and Vadyu—nicknamed Tanvanaki—neither could make sense of the calculations of Luan Zya in Gitré Üthu. His incipient doubt of the sincerity of the Lyucu prince and princess had caused him to not write out every step of his derivations and to leave out crucial steps in his proofs. The final model was so complex and abstract that it was impossible to reconstruct his thought process from the few tantalizing hints left in the book in shorthand. Despite all the well-laid plans of the Lyucu, they could not, in the end, fully deceive the prime strategist of Dara.

All they had was one date, and they needed more.

Pékyu Tenryo began by trying to persuade Luan. He offered him riches beyond measure and promised to make him a powerful thane once Dara was conquered.

Luan laughed in his face.

Next, he tried torture. He had found many effective ways to apply pain, and they had always worked wonders on the soft men from Dara.

Each of Luan Zya’s toenails was pulled out one by one, and Luan screamed until his throat was hoarse. His thighs were tied down to a long bone-bench and his legs then bent upward until they snapped at his knees, and Luan howled until even his guards lost color in their faces.

But when they presented Gitré Üthu to him with a pen, he simply shook his head.

They held his head underwater until he stopped struggling before pulling him out. They compressed his chest with heavy stones until he passed out. Afterward, the very sight of water or the stoning board made Luan tremble with terror, and he struggled vainly against his guards to escape.

Yet when they presented Gitré Üthu to him with a pen, he simply shook his head.

“A Lyucu warrior would not make any sound even if a garinafin’s fire burned off his limbs,” said a frowning Pékyu Tenryo. “But like all the pampered men of Dara, you scream and cry like a child when suffering even mild discomfort. You clearly do not possess a warrior’s spirit.”

“There’s no shame in crying when in pain,” said Luan Zya. “Neither is there dishonor in showing that you’re afraid. Real courage consists of accepting pain and terror but still doing the right thing.”

A furious Pékyu Tenryo vowed to flay Luan Zya alive, one thin strip of skin at a time. But Tanvanaki reminded him that they still needed the secrets hidden in Luan Zya’s mind, and killing him would hardly get them closer to their goal.

“Do you have a better idea?” asked the pékyu.

“The men of Dara are very much guided by their philosophy,” said Tanvanaki. “And I do have an idea that I think will work. Sometimes the most effective forms of torture do not involve the flesh at all.”

Luan Zya was brought to the torture tent again on a stretcher, but this time, the one who was naked and bound to the pole was Oga Kidosu.

“If you will not do as we have asked,” said Pékyu Tenryo, “we will no longer hurt you.”

A Lyucu guard slashed his stone knife across Oga’s chest and took off a thin slice of flesh. Oga screamed as blood oozed from the wound.

Luan’s face twitched. He stared at Pékyu Tenryo and fire seemed to shoot out of his eyes.

“A stone knife is very sharp,” said Pékyu Tenryo placidly. “I imagine it will take a thousand cuts before your friend dies.”

Oga howled incoherently as the guard flicked his wrist again. A second wound began to ooze blood.

“After he dies,” said Pékyu Tenryo, “I will choose a child born from a coupling with one of the slaves of Dara and do the same thing to him. And after he dies, I’ll pick another.”

Many of the visitors from Dara had had children with the Lyucu, either during the time they were treated as kings or when they were treated as slaves—the flow of power was never symmetrical in these encounters, but children, who were innocent, were nonetheless born. Most of the mixed-blood children continued to be treated as slaves by the Lyucu.

Luan’s teeth clattered as he ground them against each other; the veins on his forehead stood out and pulsed.

“You’ll never be harmed again,” said Pékyu Tenryo. “I intend to pamper you so that you can live as long as you can and reflect upon how many people will have to die because of you.”

His words were punctuated by another scream from Oga as the guard slashed again.

Luan tried to lunge from his stretcher, but the sinew cords binding him down held. “I am not the one responsible!”

“Tsk-tsk,” said Pékyu Tenryo. “What a hypocrite you are! Your sages speak endlessly of the value of human life and the lack of distinction between acts of commission and omission. Yet here you are, trying to pretend that you’re different from the man holding the stone knife. You have the power to stop this at any moment with a simple nod; by refusing to, you might as well be the one doing the cutting.”

The guard flicked his wrist rapidly three times, and the howls from Oga bled into one another and no longer sounded human.

“Stop! Stop!”

Pékyu Tenryo looked at Luan Zya, a smile on his face.

The old scholar nodded in defeat. Had he been a young man still driven by the passion to seek vengeance for injustice, he might have held steadfast to his refusal despite the heart-rending cries of tortured Oga. Had he been the young strategist who coldly counseled a king to betray his friend in order to secure a lasting peace for a people, he might have weighed the needs of millions against the suffering of a single man.

But age had worn down his logic, and he could not bear to be the instrument of torture for his friend. Sentiment makes us fools, and yet, without sentiment, we would be little better than dumb instruments wielded by the gods in their incomprehensible games.

Luan Zya produced a series of new dates for subsequent openings in the Wall of Storms. “These will work only for the northern part of the Wall, for that is where I have records of the most observations,” he explained. “And the further you go into the future, the less certain the predictions become.”

To verify that Luan Zya was indeed telling the truth, Pékyu Tenryo took away the results and derivations of his calculations and asked him to redo them. He reasoned that if Luan were making up false numbers on the fly, being forced to re-create his work would reveal discrepancies.

Three times Luan Zya was asked to do this, and each time he produced the same results.

Still unconvinced, Tenryo had Luan perform various engineering calculations for how to modify the city-ships to adjust for the weight of the garinafins. After a ship modified in accordance with Luan’s suggestions successfully completed a stable test voyage with garinafins aboard, the pékyu was finally satisfied that the Dara scholar seemed to have learned his lesson.

Indeed, Luan Zya became a subdued and obedient servant. As his legs healed, he hobbled around on crutches, doing whatever the pékyu demanded of him. He devised ways to alter the internal bulkheads and compartments in the city-ships to better store the feed and weapons needed for the invasion; he designed the special holds for the garinafins so that they would travel in relative comfort; he computed the best ways to distribute livestock and people across the ship so that they would weather rogue storms better.

“Why?” Oga asked him.

Luan shook his head and said nothing.

But Oga would not let it go. “I would kill myself if I were in your position. For my daughter, for all the sons and daughters of Dara.”

Luan sighed. “Even if I were dead, they would still be able to get to Dara. I’m an old and weak man, and I’d like to see my homeland one more time before I die.”

The invasion fleet left on an auspicious day. From the decks of the city-ships, the invading army waved at those who stayed behind. They were going to conquer paradise for the homeland.

Twenty city-ships filled with men and women, cattle, and garinafins sailed into the broad ocean current, their full sails filled with wind, looking like icebergs found in the sea far to the north. This was less than half of Mapidéré’s original fleet. The rest would be saved for sending future reinforcements to Dara.

As Luan’s legs healed, he gained more mobility. He spent the bulk of the voyage studying the garinafins, sketching pictures of them in Gitré Üthu and questioning the grooms about their habits. Pékyu Tenryo, who was on the same ship, thought of Luan’s behavior as an example of his eccentricity. Even a man who was broken needed hobbies.

The city-ships sped up as the current grew stronger.

Finally, the fleet arrived at the Wall of Storms a few days ahead of schedule. The ships left the current and waited before the magnificent curtain of cyclones near the spot where Luan Zya had penetrated the Wall two years ago.

“This is the moment of truth,” said Pékyu Tenryo to Luan Zya. “We’ll soon find out if you really are as clever as you think you are.”

Luan said nothing.

On the appointed day, everyone on the city-ships watched the storm eagerly. There seemed to be no change in the roiling waves and clouds until noon, when suddenly the zigzagging lightning bolts in the clouds began to flash in sync.

It was as if the entire curtain of cyclones had turned into a pulsing light of blinding brightness. As the lights continued to flash, the cyclones sorted themselves like combatants in heated battle who suddenly heard the order to retreat from both sides. Gradually, a thin sliver of calm sea appeared between parting curtains like the stage being revealed at the start of a folk opera.

A wild cheer arose on all the city-ships. The gamble had paid off.

Pékyu Tenryo looked at Luan Zya, whose face held a complicated expression.

“You’ve accomplished something amazing,” said Pékyu Tenryo, and the praise was sincere. “Your name will live on in history as the first man to understand the secret of this marvel of nature.”

“The universe is knowable,” muttered Luan Zya, and it was hard to tell if he was joyous or sorrowful.

That night, after a wild ship-wide celebration, Pékyu Tenryo invited Luan Zya to his cabin to drink more kyoffir. The pékyu was feeling affectionate toward his pet scholar.

“You will be remembered as a hero of the Lyucu,” said Pékyu Tenryo.

“And a traitor to my people,” said Luan Zya.

“Don’t be so morose,” said Pékyu Tenryo. “The rightness and wrongness of things must be looked at from many perspectives. If you had not helped us, more grandfathers and grandmothers would have died in winters on the scrublands and many more children would remain unborn.”

“Tyrants could justify anything with what-ifs.”

Pékyu Tenryo laughed. “Then I’ll try another tack. If your homeland is so wonderful, isn’t it a sin to keep it only for yourselves? Those born in less fortunate lands deserve to enjoy its bounty as well. You’ve always had a restless soul, and wanderlust is what drove you to leave Dara. Why would you deny to others the freedom of movement that you view as your own birthright?”

“So you think an invasion is morally the same as a voyage of exploration?”

“I certainly saw little difference when Admiral Krita explored our land and made himself its king.”

Luan Zya sighed. “You would make a good paid litigator.”

Pékyu Tenryo was about to ask more about this exotic-sounding profession when he felt a sudden wave of dizziness and collapsed to the table, his skull-cup of kyoffir spilling across the leather surface.

Luan Zya got up from the table, rummaged through Pékyu Tenryo’s furs for the set of keys that never left his side, and hurried out of the room.

He opened the door to the storeroom that was always kept sealed.

A strong scent of smoke and fire almost overwhelmed him.

Luan Zya did not know what was kept in this room. He only knew that the grooms always clammed up whenever the conversation drifted in this direction. It was also kept locked, and, as far as he knew, Pékyu Tenryo had the only key. Whatever was held in here was of the utmost importance to the Lyucu invasion.

He had bided his time and waited for his chance. Having fallen for Cudyu and Vadyu’s trick, he had already yielded up the secret of passing through the Wall of Storms. The only way to atone for his sin was to sabotage the invaders’ mission. He had already done one thing that would hopefully thwart the plans of the Lyucu to subjugate Dara, but he needed to do more to be sure.

Luan had debated between killing the pékyu as he slept, which might have led to quicker discovery of his treachery, and making his way quietly down here to sabotage the secrets in this room. In the end, he had picked the less obvious choice. The pékyu was powerful and crafty, but another thane—such as the cunning Tanvanaki—might step into his place; the contents of this room, however, might be irreplaceable. He hoped he had made the right decision.

He had gained the Lyucu’s trust by seeming to comply with their wishes. He had acted the part of the weak and foolish man who could not understand that to stop evil, sometimes the innocent needed to suffer. He had allowed the pékyu to underestimate him and misjudge him. All for this chance. For this moment.

The room was packed with woven sacks holding some kind of grain, he decided. Maybe it was a potent medicine, or a food that endowed the warriors with extra strength. Whatever it was, he was going to destroy it.

But the strong, acrid smell, as though something was already burning, confused him. He was sure he had smelled it before. An image of a hot-air balloon ride taken with Zomi Kidosu, his best student, came unbidden to mind, and he wasn’t sure why.

No matter, he didn’t have time to investigate. There was a time for gathering knowledge, and a time to act. Lord Garu had taught him that lesson a long time ago.

He poured the jar of lamp oil he had stolen from the store all over the sacks; then he dropped the torch and watched as poof the room flared into conflagration.

As he hurried out of the room, he ticked through his mental checklist. Gitré Üthu was safely ensconced at an obscure corner in the hold, where it was unlikely to be found. In a moment of weakness, he had written a last message in it for Gin, the lover he never stopped thinking about and who he could not convince to stop the pursuit of power and honor—well, perhaps he was the foolish one. He had tried to pursue his own dream, and look where it had gotten him.

It would be good if the book survived and was eventually discovered by someone who could make sense of it, but it wasn’t critical. He had nothing more to lose.

He ran to the opening of the narrow corridor that led down to this compartment and lifted the dung shovel he had grabbed on the way down. For a moment he had the illusion that he was again in the palace in Pan that had been built by Emperor Erishi, as he fought by the side of Lord Garu and everything burned around him.

He would stand here and hold off the Lyucu guards as long as he could. The longer he could keep it up, the more the mysterious material held in the storeroom behind him would burn.

“You should have invited me.”

Oga Kidosu stepped into view. He was carrying two swords of Dara, kept by the thane he served as trophies.

Luan was startled. “Don’t you want to see Zomi and Aki?” He accepted one of the swords from Oga and dropped the dung shovel.

“It’s the duty of fathers to fight wars so that their children don’t have to.”

Luan smiled. “All right then, friend. Let’s make this count.”

The Lyucu guards came at them through the darkness, and they ululated and stabbed into the unknown.

^{CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE} A TRAP

“They finally overcame us… the storeroom burned down… chained us both in the hold… would not kill us… witness the destruction of our homeland…”

Oga Kidosu’s voice faded until, even with her ear next to his murmuring lips, she could hear nothing.

“Proud… daughter… proud… seen you once…”

The lips stopped moving. Zomi placed her head against his chest, and there was only silence.

She held his hand against her face and hot tears covered the wrinkled skin that was growing cold and stiff.

In the other stretcher, Luan Zya’s hands moved. Zomi shifted over and held them. She gazed into his sightless eyes and shouted, “Teacher! I’m here!”

The hands continued to move in her grasp like slippery fish that were trying to escape. Zomi let go and watched as the hands moved through air.

She turned around and called out, “Writing wax! He’s trying to say something.”

Others in the grand audience hall scrambled and soon, soft wax was brought over on a tray. Zomi held the tray up and placed her teacher’s hands over it. Even without his eyes, his fingers sought out the malleable wax and began to sculpt.

Zomi watched the logograms take shape on the tray, one after another. She saw that the hands were slowing down, growing sluggish. Tears flowed down her face unimpeded; she felt her heart was on the verge of breaking.

This was a summary of his life, the ultimate call of the wild goose departing the pond.

The last logogram took shape; the fingers stopped. And with a final, barely audible gasp, Luan Zya died.

Zomi backed up and knelt before both stretchers. She touched her forehead to the ground in the direction of Oga Kidosu.

“You are the author of my body and the mold of my spirit, Father. Though we have seen each other only twice in our lives, at the moment of my birth and the moment of your death, yet the silver streaks of our passing shall forever illuminate the vast sea of my memory.”

She turned and touched her forehead to the ground in the direction of Luan Zya.

“You are the parent of my mind and the instructor of my soul, Luan Zyaji—”

Her sobbing made it impossible for her to continue.

No one objected to her use of the honorific, though it was the custom that only kings and emperors could convey such honor upon great scholars.

A detailed report was prepared and sent to Pan. Some thought it best to send Gitré Üthu to the emperor as well, but Than Carucono looked at the mourning figure of Zomi Kidosu, who cradled the book the way a drowning man clutched at anything that floated, and shook his head. The book was where it needed to be.

Oga Kidosu’s and Luan Zya’s bodies rested in the grand audience hall. After a suitable mourning period, Zomi would take both for burial in their hometowns in Dasu and Haan. Given the state of the war, however, that might take some time.

- Why didn’t you whisk the body of your protégé away, Turtle-Brother, the way we took the bodies of our favorites away in their moments of apotheosis?

- Luan has always believed the universe is knowable. Making the moment of his death a mystery would be wrong.

- You have strange ideas for how to honor the mortals, Lutho.

- I’ve been thinking a lot about our relationship with the mortals. We may not have encountered the Lyucu gods, but have you not noticed how they’ve started to pray to us, giving us the names of their gods? Do you feel honored or dishonored?

Than Carucono and Zomi Kidosu debated the wisdom of the plan to bring the emperor over to Rui.

“Based on Luan Zyaji’s experience, Pékyu Tenryo is a wily, clever opponent,” said Zomi. “We should ascertain whether the apparent retreat is but another stratagem before committing the emperor to this path.”

“But if we wait too long, it will give Tenryo a chance to regroup. The longer we wait, the more likely it is that Tenryo will strengthen his position. The right strategy is to immediately call for reinforcements and strike while the iron is hot. The emperor’s presence will rally our troops and awe the barbarians, and having the emperor here will allow negotiations for the safety of Prince Timu to be conducted with alacrity.”

Zomi sighed. By now, she was sufficiently experienced with the ways of the world to understand that Than Carucono’s real fear was that he would be blamed if Tenryo, in desperation, decided to harm Prince Timu. He wanted Emperor Ragin here so that he would not have to face the wrath of the emperor and the empress if things went wrong. This might be wise politics, but she was sure it was the wrong strategy.

Once the messenger airship arrived in Pan, Kuni immediately began preparations for going over to Rui with the rest of the army.

“I advise strongly against such a path,” said Mün Çakri. “The situation in Rui is still uncertain, and I think Zomi’s concerns should be given due consideration.”

“Why are you suddenly so cautious?” said Jia. Her voice took on an edge. She couldn’t wait to be reunited with Timu, and the idea that Mün might be hoping to prolong the war to increase his own influence flashed through her mind.

“The marshal has always taught us that there is a time for acting, and there is a time for waiting,” said Mün Çakri. “I don’t trust the speedy victory and the apparent collapse of the Lyucu defenses.”

“The marshal isn’t fighting this war,” said Kuni, an edge in his voice. “I’m going whether you come or not. My son is over there. Surely you, of all people, can understand that.”

Emperor Ragin arrived in Kriphi with General Mün Çakri and a reinforcement of ten thousand men, along with more airships equipped with flamethrowers.

As the Lyucu did not trust their own airship crews—mostly manned by surrendered Imperials—not to defect, they grounded the airships they had been using as scouts in Dasu. Since the Lyucu also didn’t have the training or skill to field large fleets of battle airships, they scuttled all the ships at the Mount Kiji Air Base during their retreat rather than letting them fall into Imperial hands. It would take a long time to construct more; the airships that accompanied the emperor here were the very last ones in Dara.

Mün Çakri ordered a slow and steady march by the army in pursuit of the Lyucu. Puma Yemu was put in charge of the Imperial airships, and he directed them to make hit-and-run raids against the Lyucu army. The goal of these raids wasn’t to cause damage, but to draw out garinafin fire and exhaust their flight. The Lyucu responded by dividing their garinafins into groups who alternated between waddling along the ground to rest and taking off into the air to deal with Puma’s harassing airships.

While the barbarian warriors slowly retreated toward the coast, forcing civilians to travel with them as human shields, the garinafins, skittish after their last disastrous battle against Imperial airships, stayed at a safe distance from the flame-tongued airships even as they rose to intercept them. The two sides thus engaged in an aerial dance, feinting and probing for weaknesses but never engaging fully.

More garinafins were sent to protect the city-ships anchored along the western coast of Rui against either airship bombardment or sneak assaults by mechanical crubens.

Pékyu Tenryo’s overall plan appeared to be to get to the coast and board the city-ships. Once that was accomplished, he could either retreat to Dasu for a final stand or make a run for the open ocean.

“We have to stop him before he can reach the coast,” Kuni declared, and Than Carucono took a detachment of a few hundred horsemen to try to secretly outflank the retreating mass of the Lyucu army and their abductees. A few flame-throwing Imperial airships flew at some distance from the brigade to act as decoys to draw the attention of patrolling garinafins away from the location of the horse riders. If Than could cut off the retreating Lyucu’s path to the sea, the emperor’s army had a chance to completely surround the Lyucu army.

Zomi Kidosu elected to join the riders of Than Carucono. The winter weather made her leg harness stiff and made walking more difficult, and riding a horse gave her more mobility. She took advantage of the opportunity to ride away from the cavalry brigade and observe the distant aerial dance of garinafins against airships. Although Luan Zyaji had taken detailed notes on the creatures in Gitré Üthu, she reminded herself that there was no substitute for direct observation, for weighing the fish.

The crews of the Imperial airships and the garinafin riders had by now fought each other often enough to have adjusted somewhat to each other’s tactics. The airships had the advantage of being able to stay aloft indefinitely and of having flamethrowers with longer range, but the garinafins were more maneuverable and faster. As long as the airship crews remained alert and maintained careful formations that prevented blind spots, they could fend off the garinafins though they did not have the speed or agility to catch up to them.

Kidosu carefully sketched pictures of the garinafins in action and noted whether they seemed particularly protective of parts of their bodies as they fought the airships. She even took the time to examine garinafin dung heaps when they encountered them, much to the consternation of others in the cavalry brigade. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for, but she believed that Gin Mazoti was right: Understanding the garinafins was the key to eventually defeating them.

Occasionally, some of the civilians managed to escape the Lyucu army and ran to Than Carucono’s riders for protection. There were far fewer of these escaped villagers than Carucono would have expected, and questioning of the escapees revealed that this was due to the deci-chief system set up by the traitor Ra Olu—even when given the opportunity, few of the families dared to escape because they knew that their neighbors who remained behind would have to pay for their safety. Ra Olu’s system was effective at helping the Lyucu to secure their control over the population, and Carucono cursed Olu’s name.

Once Than Carucono had finished questioning the escaped villagers about the morale and deployment of retreating Lyucu troops, he wanted to send them to Mün Çakri, who was leading the main army and could offer them protection. Zomi Kidosu, however, kept the escapees around longer and asked them many questions about the garinafins: how many people were assigned to feed and care for each garinafin; how much did they eat and for how many hours during the day; what exactly were their favorite foods; how often did they relieve themselves and what form did the fresh excrement take; and so on and so forth.

To Than Carucono, these questions didn’t seem very useful. “Are you thinking of becoming a garinafin herder?”

Zomi Kidosu shook her head. To most people of Dara, the garinafins were monsters from nightmares, but she and her teacher both understood that even monsters were knowable.

To reach the coast, the Lyucu army and the abducted villagers had to go through Naza Pass, which was near the northern coast of Rui.

The pass was at the narrow end of a funnel-shaped valley between looming hills on both sides. The valley was about a mile in breadth at the wider end, where the village of Phada was located—the tiny hamlet had a measure of fame because this was where, during the Chrysanthemum-Dandelion War, the secret tunnel from Dasu to Rui dug by Gin Mazoti terminated.

As the tunnel had been dug only for military use, it was not suitable for commercial exploitation without significant investment, and Kuni Garu wisely thought taking up a hated project initiated by the tyrant Mapidéré would not have appealed to his subjects. The tunnel was thus soon abandoned, and over time, the crater from which Gin Mazoti’s forces had emerged had been filled back in by loose stones. Few even remembered its existence except for old veterans who had fought under Marshal Mazoti in the early days.

The valley narrowed as one moved west, and by the time it reached Naza Pass, the hills had pressed in until only about a hundred yards separated them.

General Than Carucono’s riders managed to get to the pass ahead of the retreating Lyucu by several days, which was plenty of time to build up impressive fortifications with stones and fallen trees.

Carucono sighed with relief. Once the fortifications were in place, even attacks by garinafins wouldn’t be able to dislodge them. The five hundred riders were confident that they could hold off the much larger Lyucu force until the main army led by the emperor and Mün Çakri in pursuit of the Lyucu arrived.

Zomi looked at the fortifications, her brows furrowed.

“What’s worrying you?” asked Than Carucono.

“I don’t understand why the garinafins haven’t found us,” Zomi said. She looked up at the airships patrolling some distance off—Carucono had not wanted the airships to hover overhead, which might have tipped off the Lyucu that something was happening in Naza Pass. “They’ve been harassing the decoy airships the entire time we were marching down here.”

“That’s the point; so they wouldn’t find us.”

“But it was almost like they were putting on a show! Not a single garinafin patrol has come anywhere near us; it was as if they wanted to be sure that we could see that the garinafins were fooled by these airships, even though it made no sense for them to be flying away from General Çakri’s main army. I think they might already know we’re here.”

“That’s a bit paranoid.”

“Doesn’t it seem odd to you that they’ve now stopped harassing those airships?”

“Maybe the garinafins are tired and need to rest. Like you said, they’ve been harassing those decoy airships the whole time we’ve been marching.”

Zomi shook her head. “They haven’t been using the same garinafins to go after the airships. There are at least three different groups. While one group is keeping our airships busy, the other two groups must be recuperating.”

“I’m impressed you’ve been tracking them that closely,” said Carucono. “But, so what? Most of the garinafins are probably busy dealing with Puma Yemu’s airships escorting Mün Çakri’s main army. All that matters is that we got to the pass first and set up defenses. Even if the garinafins discover us now, they wouldn’t be able to remove the fortifications before the main army got here. They’re doomed.”

“But the plan has been working too perfectly…. Tenryo must know that this is the best choke point to the coast. Yet, instead of avoiding this route or trying to seize this spot first, he’s still marching this way without even sending a garinafin to scout the route first. Something isn’t right.”

“If you think of everything as a plot within a plot within a plot,” said an irritated Carucono, “you’ll never commit to doing anything. If we think of the barbarians as all-knowing, then why bother fighting?”

“That’s not what I meant—” Zomi protested.

“Sometimes it’s best to keep things simple. The gods may have favored the barbarians by giving them these amazing mounts, but having such mounts must also have shaped the way they think about battlefield tactics. We’ve never impressed them except with those flame-throwing airships, and all commanders have a tendency to overplan for the last threat they faced.

“Since they don’t expect our ground forces to be able to do much, the most likely explanation for your suspicion is that they don’t think they need to be clever or cautious as long as they know where our airships are.”

Zomi wanted to argue, but without being able to offer a plausible theory as to what the Lyucu really intended, she knew she couldn’t win.

But her unease deepened.

Long before the Lyucu army came into view, the ground began to shake with the waddling footsteps of the garinafins. It sounded like a giant herd of elephants was tearing through the dark woods, or perhaps thunder was rolling across the earth.

And then, there they were: thousands of refugees being herded across the valley like cattle, stumbling, staggering, dragging children, exhausted from days spent carrying heavy bags of feed and grain and provisions for the Lyucu army. Behind them came the horde of Lyucu warriors, intermixed with the striding, oversized figures of the garinafins, their massive bulk making a startling visual contrast with the narrow confines of the valley.

Zomi’s heart pounded. Damn it. Why haven’t I thought about this? “What if they drive the civilians at us?”

“We can’t let the Lyucu through.”

“But these are our people! We can’t just kill them.”

Carucono’s face looked grim. “We have to hold the line.”

The Dara soldiers lined the barricades, their bows drawn taut and arrows notched.

But the Lyucu did not drive the crowd forward. Instead, the civilians were directed to sit down in front of the barricades, and the Lyucu warriors and the garinafins lined up behind them. The ranks stretched as far as the eye could see, filling the valley.

“The emperor’s troops have entered the valley,” said an excited Carucono, reading the flag signals from one of the airships hovering in the distance. “They are trapped!”

Kuni Garu examined the barbarian warriors lined up in front of him, searching for signs of his son.

They were now dressed in a motley combination formed from the furs and hides favored by the Lyucu as well as the silks and hemps favored in Dara. Many of the barbarian warriors had draped strands of pearls and chains of jewels and precious metal over their body, the fruits of their looting and robbery. Though lacking in the kind of discipline implied by the visual orderliness of Imperial soldiers dressed in uniforms, there was a kind of splendor in their arrogant, careless stance that reminded Kuni of his old troops, the band of bandits that had started him on the path to the Throne of Dara decades ago.

Behind them were the surrendered Imperial soldiers who had thrown in their lot with the invaders. They were shamefaced and did not dare to look at the emperor.

And still behind them, before the barricades that blocked the pass, were the civilians he had sworn to protect.

He felt old and weak. How many more wars must I fight? How many more people must die?

The barbarian ranks parted, and a powerful man stepped forward to face him across the space between the two armies.

“You must be Pékyu Tenryo,” said Kuni.

Tenryo nodded, a wide grin across his face. “After entertaining your son as my guest for so many days, it is an honor to meet his father, Emperor Ragin.”

Kuni forced his face to remain calm. That Tenryo was bringing up Timu was a good sign. It meant that he was in the mood for discussing terms. He knows he’s trapped and I have the upper hand. I just have to walk him through what he must do.

“You have done much harm, Pékyu,” said Kuni. “Dara was a land of peace before your coming, and the blood of those you have killed will stain your soul long after your death.”

“I came to seek a better life for my people,” said Tenryo. “I will never apologize for that.”

The Lyucu warriors behind him banged their bone axes and clubs against each other, causing a terrifying din.

Kuni waited until the noise subsided. “You may have thought you were fighting for a better life for your people, but you’ve clearly failed.”

Tenryo laughed. “I don’t agree with that.”

Kuni had to admire the boldness and confidence of the barbarian leader. “I know your garinafins are exhausted, which is why they’re not in the air.”

“Even exhausted, grounded garinafins will put up quite a fight.”

“But your path to the sea is blocked, and we outnumber you four to one. In this narrow valley, how long do you think you’ll last before you succumb to attrition? Those garinafins still capable of flight will not fight after the Lyucu riders are dead from our arrows, and flightless beasts may be killed by dropping stones and logs on them. You have no choice but to negotiate.”

Tenryo continued to smile. “Suppose I agree with your analysis. What terms will you offer me, Emperor of Dara?”

“If you immediately put down your weapons and kill your garinafins—I don’t care how—you and your people will be guaranteed safe passage back to the city-ships on the coast. Once there, you must leave the shores of Dara immediately and never return. We both know that Luan Zyaji’s calculations show that there will be an opening in the Wall next year, and you may stay at the isles of the pirates until then.”

“These terms don’t sound generous,” said Tenryo. “I don’t like them.”

Kuni shook his head. “These are the best terms you’ll get.”

“You won’t change your mind even when you see your son?” asked Tenryo.

The ranks of Lyucu warriors parted, revealing the figure of Prince Timu, whose hands were bound behind him. Vadyu Roatan pressed him forward, holding a Dara-style steel sword against his neck.

Blood rushed to Kuni’s face, and his heart pounded painfully against his rib cage.

Stay calm! He won’t harm Timu—he knows that harming Timu would deprive him of his only negotiating chip and seal his own fate. This is just a bluff to get better terms.

“I’m not afraid, Father,” shouted Timu. Murmurs of admiration rippled through the ranks of Dara soldiers.

Summoning up the same courage he had called on years ago, when the Hegemon had threatened to cook his father in front of him, Kuni forced the color of his face to return to normal. “If you harm my son, know that none of you will leave here alive.”

“You sound so confident of victory,” said Tenryo.

“My life is not as important as the lives of everyone in Dara!” shouted Timu. “Don’t give in, Father!”

Kuni frowned. Something about the confidence of Tenryo bothered him. Kuni was a good gambler, and he could tell when someone was just bluffing in a game of cards. But Tenryo’s smile… it was different.

And then came the rumbling behind him.

The crater in the village of Phada, long neglected and forgotten, erupted.

They emerged from underground, the men and women and beasts of the Land of Ukyu. The garinafins took to the air, circling over the shocked, uplifted faces of the Dara soldiers. Behind them the Lyucu warriors moved forward, holding up shields made from garinafin skin, banging their clubs and axes rhythmically against the bone frame.

Soon, the wide end of the valley was filled. Now it was the army of Dara that was trapped inside the valley, sandwiched between Pékyu’s forces at the narrow end and these new warriors at the wider.

While Tanvanaki had directed her garinafins to put on a dazzling show against the Imperial airships and kept them occupied, she had also dispatched a few of the garinafin-carrying city-ships to the coast of Dasu. From there, they had secretly moved through the tunnel under the sea back to Rui.

Tanvanaki, inspired by the lessons learned from the surprise landing by the mechanical crubens and the lore she learned from surrendered Imperial veterans, had come up with her own way to take advantage of underwater attack vectors: Lyucu reinforcements had come to Rui from under the sea, using tunnels that Kuni himself had once used to conquer Rui from Dasu.

“Would you care to offer different terms?” asked a grinning Pékyu Tenryo. “I used myself as lure, and I guess you couldn’t resist!”

Kuni Garu closed his eyes in defeat. In his eagerness to rescue his son, he had ignored the warning signs. He was indeed not a commander of men at the level of Gin Mazoti.

Zomi, at the other end of the valley, cursed herself for not seeing through the wily Lyucu plot earlier.

Mün Çakri rushed up to the emperor. “Rénga, though we still outnumber them, the narrowness of the valley neutralizes this advantage to some degree. And now that they have so many garinafins in the air, we have no chance of overcoming their aerial advantage.”

Kuni knew that Mün Çakri was trying to spare his feelings by not mentioning the biggest disadvantage of all: He was here. In fact, he had become the pékyu’s hostage.

“What can we do?”

“The only choice is for you to board one of the airships and head for safety. All Imperial airships working together may create an opening in this trap to enable your escape. The rest of us will fight here to keep his foot soldiers occupied. You’ll have to avenge us.”

“That’s unacceptable!”

“If you don’t leave, you’ll die here. If Dara is without an emperor, all the islands will fall!”

As some of the airships flew over to engage the fresh garinafins and their riders, one particularly fast ship, the Imperial transport Grace of Kings, began to descend toward them. Mün Çakri rallied the Dara troops to establish defensive parameters around the emperor in case the Lyucu tried to rush the position to prevent the airship from landing.

Kuni looked across the field at Timu. In his mind, he was again seeing young Timu and Théra clutching at the skirts of Jia while the city of Zudi fell around them, and he had to choose between leaving his loved ones behind so that he could fight another day or staying with them and losing forever.

The choices a king faced were not always the ones he wanted.

Grace of Kings hovered close to the ground. The gondola opened, and a rope ladder was dropped down. “Hurry, Rénga!” Dafiro Miro, who was at the top of the ladder, shouted.

“I’m sorry, Timu,” he shouted across the field. And the scene became blurry in his eyes.

“I’m not afraid, Father!”

Kuni looked away to hide his tears. He turned to Mün Çakri. “Do not waste your life or the lives of the soldiers. Fight only as long as you must to allow my ship to escape beyond the range of pursuit.”

Mün Çakri laughed. He banged his bronze sword against his shield, whose unique design featured embedded butcher’s hooks as a reminder of his roots. “Lord Garu, do you think I’m really afraid of these barbarians? I will see you soon, perhaps with this Tenryo’s head hooked on my shield like a pig’s head.”

Kuni gripped him by the arms. “I know you’re a proud man, but if there’s no chance of success, surrender. There’s no shame in capitulating after a battle well fought. Promise me this.”

Mün Çakri looked at him. “From the day I joined your gang of bandits, Kuni, I’ve been prepared for a moment like this. Take care of Naro and Cacaya-tika, and I look forward to seeing the Hegemon on the farther shore of the River-on-Which-Nothing-Floats. Maybe I’ll get to yell at him again.”

They embraced and then resolutely let each other go. The barbarians made no move, as if still making up their minds whether to attack.

Just as Kuni was about to start climbing into the airship, Pékyu Tenryo shouted across the field.

“Emperor Ragin! We have barely gotten to know each other. Why are you in such a hurry to leave? Don’t you want to see what entertainment I’ve planned for you?”

“Go now! Go!” Mün shouted. But Kuni stopped on the ladder and turned to see what the barbarian chief had planned. He still didn’t believe that Tenryo would truly harm Timu—as long as Timu was alive, the pékyu had leverage over Kuni.

But Tenryo wasn’t threatening Timu. Tanvanaki had dragged Timu away behind the Lyucu lines, and the Lyucu ranks pulled back, leaving a blank strip of land between the two armies.

About a hundred civilians—farmers, fishermen, monks, petty merchants, and their children and aged parents—were forced into this space.

They huddled in a group, terrified.

“Mother!” Zomi screamed.

There, among the civilians trapped between two armies, was the calm figure of Aki Kidosu.

How could her mother be here? She was only a simple farmer in Dasu, miles from Rui.

Then she understood. Zomi had used the money she gained as an important adviser to Queen Gin to build her mother a big house and hire her servants, thinking that it would allow her to live a life of leisure. But her mother had not enjoyed the way all the other villagers now came to her to ask for money, and how all her friends now no longer saw her as one of them, one of the simple folk.

She had not complained to Zomi, knowing that her daughter meant well. But she had told Zomi that she was thinking of leaving Dasu to visit distant relatives in Rui. After that, Zomi had been so busy with work that she had not even realized that it meant that her mother was in Rui at the moment of the invasion.

Zomi leapt from the barricades, but Than Carucono grabbed her legs and dragged her back.

“Let me go!” Zomi struggled against his hold, clawing at his arms and hands.

Than gritted his teeth against the pain.

“You can’t help her! You’ll never get through all the Lyucu army between her and you.”

“I don’t care!”

“Sometimes we have to accept the Flow,” said Than Carucono.

“I intend to keep you as my guest a little longer,” shouted Tenryo. “If you really must leave, I’ll have to enjoy the entertainment all by myself.”

Passages from the report by Luan Zyaji came into Kuni’s mind.

He understood that he was about to witness something evil, but he couldn’t just avert his eyes and keep on climbing. A king had a duty to gaze upon the consequences of his decisions, he had always believed.

He stopped climbing, no matter how much Dafiro Miro, who was above him, or Mün Çakri, who was below him on the ground, urged him to keep on moving.

One of the garinafin lumbered over and crouched next to the crowd of civilians. The men and women and children shied away from the beast, but their ankles were chained together, and the panicked moves only caused them to fall down into a heap.

“Emperor, please come off that ladder,” said a smiling Tenryo.

“Don’t listen to him!” shouted Mün Çakri. “Go! Go!”

But Kuni hesitated. He looked at the crying, screaming men and women and children, and his hands and legs seemed stuck to the ladder.

As a young duke, Kuni had once retreated from Pan and allowed its people to be slaughtered by Mata Zyndu’s army. Their screams had never ceased to haunt his dreams.

Must I add to the accusatory voices in my head?

Tenryo waved his arm decisively, and the pilot on the back of the garinafin stuck the speaking trumpet into the base of her mount’s neck and shouted into it.

The beast lowered its head to the ground and closed its mouth.

“No!” screamed Kuni Garu, and he let go, falling from the ladder.

The beast snapped its mouth open, and a red glowing tongue of flames emerged from its maw and swept across the crowd before it.

Time seemed to slow down. As Kuni fell, he watched the tongue flicking across each man, woman, and child, turning each from a person into a pillar of flames. Their screams rose to a horrifying, synchronized crescendo and then abruptly ceased.

“Nooooo!” howled Zomi Kidosu. “Mother! Mother! Oh, gods!”

Than Carucono held on to her even tighter.

The scene before her was incomprehensible. Her mother, burning; her mother, dying. She had promised to give her mother a better life, and this was what she had done.

Where a hundred people had scrambled and struggled for life a moment ago, now only a hundred smoldering pyres remained. The charred but still sizzling bodies maintained the poses of the last moments of their lives: a mother shielding the body of her child, a husband interposing himself before his wife, a son and daughter trying to cover the body of their mother—all three were now fused into one smoldering corpse.

Kuni struck the ground, and Mün Çakri’s arms softened the fall. The emperor’s lips moved but he could not find the words. He stared at the scene of horror, benumbed.

Some Lyucu soldiers came forward and unceremoniously smothered the smoldering embers with bags of earth they carried over their shoulders. About a hundred more civilians were driven forward to stand on the crematorium, over this field of slaughter. They screamed and resisted, but the Lyucu soldiers were relentless and shackled them to stakes driven into the ground. Then the Lyucu warriors retreated, and the garinafin put its head near the ground again.

The people in the ash-filled open space screamed and cried and begged for mercy, and the soldiers of Dara were so overwhelmed by this unprecedented sight and the smell of roasting human flesh that many retched and threw up.

“Emperor, order your soldiers to drop their weapons and your airships to land and stop resisting. All your airships.”

Mün Çakri gave the order for his men to attack, but they stood rooted to the ground, too shocked to move. The old general, eyes bloodred with fury, rushed straight at Tenryo himself by running through the huddled crowd.

“Hiyaaaaa!”

The pékyu chopped his arm through the air. The garinafin snapped its maw shut and snapped it open again, and a new tongue of flames flickered out, instantly incinerating the running figure of Mün Çakri and the men and women and children around him.

The fiery, dead figure of Mün Çakri continued to run at Pékyu Tenryo, as though the body was being animated by a spirit stronger than life itself. It crashed into the ranks of the Lyucu warriors standing in front of Tenryo, and four or five of the warriors were set afire by the burning body before they could stop him.

Behind him, another hundred flame pillars replaced a hundred lives.

Kuni recovered from his reverie. With tears in his eyes, he calmly ordered the soldiers of Dara to drop their weapons.

“You should have left, Rénga,” said Dafiro Miro.

“If I leave, I don’t deserve to be Emperor of Dara,” said Kuni.

He ordered Grace of Kings and all the other airships to land.

“This is my fault,” Zomi said, numbly. “I should never have left home. I should never have decided to make my talents known. My mother is dead because of me.”

“If you believe that,” Than Carucono said, “then you’re a fool. It is the nature of evil men like Pékyu Tenryo to make his victims think that they’re at fault. Do you think your mother would agree with you? Do you think Luan Zyaji would agree with you?”

Zomi stared at the chaotic scene before her. Slowly, her face settled into a look of determination.

She would have to use her talents to the utmost and avenge all those she loved.

^{CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO} THE MARSHAL’S DECISION

Zomi Kidosu returned to Pan in a small messenger airship—the only one that the Lyucu allowed to depart Rui so that survivors could inform the people of Dara of the horrors they had witnessed. Emperor Ragin demanded that she be allowed to leave along with the senior officers of his army, and Zomi was grateful for the vote of confidence in her abilities.

“I will avenge my parents,” she whispered to the emperor. “And I will rescue you and the prince.”

The emperor nodded, but she wasn’t sure if he really believed her.

She carried back to the Big Island the ashes of Mün Çakri, who was given a state funeral befitting his rank in Zudi, his hometown. Zomi also brought back her mother’s ashes—mixed with the ashes of the other Dasu villagers incinerated in her vicinity—and the body of her father, and they were buried together in a quiet ceremony in a plot in the Imperial cemetery in Pan. Since Dasu was under Lyucu occupation, it was thought best to inter them here temporarily until their homeland could be liberated.

The last box in the passenger airship held the body of Luan Zyaji, who was buried in a lavish state funeral in Ginpen. All the Lords of Dara who could make the journey attended, and it was the first occasion where anybody could remember seeing Gin Mazoti cry.

Zomi also brought a message from Pékyu Tenryo demanding the immediate cessation of all resistance in Dara.

Empress Jia summoned all the governors, generals, ministers, and enfeoffed nobles to the capital to discuss a response. As the assembled advisers debated, two camps emerged.

One camp, led by Prime Minister Cogo Yelu, advocated compliance with the demands of the Lyucu.

“The safety of the emperor and Prince Timu is paramount,” said Cogo.

“Surrendering Dara to the Lyucu is not what Father would want,” countered Prince Phyro, who led the other camp advocating continuing war. “The Lyucu number no more than five thousand, and if each of the hundreds of thousands of the inhabitants of the Islands of Dara were to spit at the Lyucu, we would drown them! What’s the matter with you, Cogo? Have you turned timid in old age? Surrendering now would sully the names of all of us and the House of Dandelion forever in history.”

Anger colored Cogo’s face. “It’s true that we have the advantage of numbers. But after the seizure of the base at Mount Kiji and the loss of all remaining airships during the last assault, we have no realistic option against the garinafin riders.”

“The garinafins are not machines, you know. They do get tired and their fire breath runs out. We can certainly overwhelm them with a sufficiently large army and navy.”

“But at what cost?” Cogo asked. “How many people must die in this war of attrition you advocate to preserve the pride that you hold so dear? The emperor could have escaped but he yielded to Pékyu Tenryo so that the people of Rui would not die for his personal honor. Would you undo his grace with your brutal, barbaric tactic of human waves?”

Phyro flushed. “I of course want to lessen the loss of lives as much as possible. But have you thought through the consequences of surrender? The Lyucu have a way of life fundamentally different from ours. They will get rid of all the rice paddies, sorghum fields, apple orchards, silk plantations, water mills, and windmills, and replace them all with pastureland for their cattle. They intend to enslave the people of Dara.”

“I didn’t say that we would just surrender completely!” said Cogo. “As you point out, they’re but few in number. They must be daunted by the prospect of having to control a population so much larger than the occupying force. It may be possible to negotiate an agreement that will cede territory to them and acknowledge their suzerainty, while also preserving for the emperor some measure of autonomy over the majority of Dara. With the passage of time, it may be possible to change the strategic balance.”

“What makes you think that time is on our side? The Lyucu must surely be sending reinforcements from their homeland right now to make the next opening in the Wall of Storms. As time passes, some of the elites of Dara will find it convenient to work with the Lyucu for self-preservation and advantage, as Ra Olu has already done. Our only chance is to fight right now and to fight to the end!”

“It’s easy for great lords dressed in silk and gold to speak of fighting to the end, especially when it is others who will have to pay the price.”

The empress listened as the two sides argued on, neither yielding an inch; her expression was unreadable.

Jia passed by the schoolroom, where Soto Zyndu was now instructing Princess Fara in history. She stopped just beyond the doorway and listened.

“What did you think of the story about Queen Tho-zu?” asked Soto.

“I don’t understand how Ologa was able to turn the people against her,” said Fara. “The queen was waiting for her husband to return, so of course she was doing the right thing to say no to all the suitors. Why would anyone believe Ologa’s lies?”

“It’s because everyone thought the king was dead—he had been away at war for ten years, while most of the other warriors had returned. They thought Queen Tho-zu was a widow, which was why all the suitors were at the castle. They couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t marry any of them.”

“Even if her husband was dead, her son was still alive. She was trying to preserve the kingdom for him.”

“But Dacan was very young, remember, and he was also away from home. So there was another interpretation for Queen Tho-zu’s refusal. Ologa hinted to the people that she wanted to hold on to the power of being regent because she enjoyed it, and in that way Ologa ruined her reputation. He accused her of being ambitious.”

“Is being ambitious bad?”

“Many men think that’s a bad thing in a woman.”

Jia entered the room.

“Empress!” Fara stood up and ran over. But a few steps away, she remembered the protocols, stopped, and bowed in jiri.

Jia walked up and embraced her. “Would you leave me and Lady Soto for a moment? She’ll find you later to continue the lesson.”

Fara nodded and left.

Jia sat down next to Soto. The room seemed very quiet now with only the two of them in it. She remembered how noisy the place used to be when Master Zato Ruthi taught all the children in here. Phyro was now spending all his time with the generals while Théra had departed for Ginpen to study the garinafin carcasses brought back by mechanical crubens. And Timu…

She reminded herself that they were no longer children.

“Have you heard what they’re saying about me in the streets of Pan?” asked Jia.

“I have enough to worry about without listening to the prattle of the foolish.”

Jia smiled. “You don’t need to spare my feelings. I heard the lesson you were giving Fara. It’s timely.”

Soto said nothing.

“Even Cogo Yelu looks at me strangely these days,” said Jia, “as though he thinks it’s possible that I’m deliberately doing nothing because I hope my husband and son would remain in the hands of the Lyucu.”

Soto looked at her. “I once spoke to you of Lady Zy, whose role in history has largely been erased, though she was the force behind Lurusén’s philippics against Xana aggression.”

“That was what inspired me down the road to politics.”

“And the alternative to erasure is misunderstanding, Jia.”

“I know,” said Jia. “But why does this have to be so hard? To achieve a better life for the people, why must I choose to stain my name in the annals of Dara? Why do the gods mock us so?”

Soto placed an arm around Jia’s shoulders, and the empress leaned into her gratefully.

“Luan Zyaji was only half right,” said Soto. “The grace of kings may belong to all, but only few are fit to take up the burden.”

And Jia cried softly in the schoolroom as Soto held her.

Gin Mazoti had been moved into a guesthouse near the palace and no guards were posted. She was free to come and go as she liked, though she was without title or power—and, nominally at least, still a traitor to the throne.

She did not stray from the courtyard of her house. She received no visitors and spent her mornings instructing Aya in the art of war—with a sword and across a cüpa board. In the afternoons, she composed her book on military tactics.

“I may never lead an army again,” she told Aya. “But perhaps it’s best to leave some record of my ideas so that future generations may remember that I earned my title by talent and hard work.”

One sunny day, Jia came to visit.

Gin laid out tea and dried fruits for the empress. Like the tea, her demeanor was tepid and perfectly placid, as though nothing was happening outside the courtyard of the guesthouse.

They sat down across the table from each other. For a moment, it seemed as if they were two cüpa players about to begin a match, but then the empress slumped in her pose in resignation.

“Marshal, I don’t know what to do.”

The admission of weakness clearly was not easy for her. She lowered her head, and Gin noticed the gray at her temples and the lines at the corners of her eyes. She had aged years in months.

“Sometimes there are no good choices,” said Gin. “Though the sagas tell of heroes who struggle against great odds and triumph, most of the time, the odds work out the way they are supposed to.”

“You were right that Kuni may be a leader of generals, but he is not a suitable commander for an army,” said Jia.

“There is no shame in the emperor’s defeat. Pékyu Tenryo is a tactician of great skill.”

Jia hesitated for a few moments, but then made up her mind. “What if I’m willing to announce to the world that you were falsely accused by me and thus redeem your name?”

Gin stared at her. “You’d be willing to do that? Just so that I’d resume command of the forces of Dara? What about all that you’ve fought for? What if the enfeoffed nobles take advantage of your concession and grow in strength to threaten the House of Dandelion in the future?”

“I can’t strive for distant visions of palaces on the moon when the house is on fire, Marshal. My husband and son need you now. Dara needs you.”

Gin stood up and paced back and forth. Jia stared at her, trying to see signs of hope.

The marshal returned and sat down.

“No.”

Jia’s face fell. “Why?”

“Conditions have changed. If you clear my name now at the cost of your own, Dara will be thrown into utter chaos. And in any event, I see no chance of victory. Pékyu Tenryo is a worthy opponent, and now he has all the advantages on the board.”

“Is there truly no hope?”

“I have played through the variations hundreds of times, Empress. I can’t think of a way to defeat the Lyucu and save the emperor and the prince.”

“What if you do not need to save the emperor and the prince?” asked Jia.

Gin looked at her, her expression unchanged.

“Do not think I covet power,” said Jia. “I know I have little credibility with you. But if you can come up with a way to drive these invaders from our shores—even if you must sacrifice Kuni and Timu—I will immediately cede to you the position of regent. When Phyro is ready in your estimation, help him be a good ruler.”

Gin’s expression finally shifted to one of astonishment.

“Perhaps you never believed my explanations and thought me a selfish, petty woman who relied on palace intrigue to secure the position of her son. But remember that Kuni and I were willing to die to overthrow the evil that was the Xana Empire; he would never forgive me if I saved him by putting the people of Dara under a worse yoke than Mapidéré’s.

“I have always done everything I could to help the people. Believe me or not, as you will—I know only that we must not yield to the Lyucu, and I beg you to save the people of Dara, even if you must sacrifice the House of Dandelion.”

She knelt up in mipa rari and bowed until she touched her forehead to the ground before Gin Mazoti.

Gin knelt up in mipa rari as well and bowed back, touching her forehead to the ground in turn. “I confess that I have mismeasured you, Jia. You’re indeed a woman of capacious mind, a worthy Empress of Dara.”

They both straightened, and Jia locked gazes with Gin. “You have a way, then?”

Gin shook her head. “Even disregarding the lives of the emperor and the prince, I cannot think of a way to defeat the Lyucu without sacrificing tens of thousands, perhaps even hundreds of thousands. Even the best ideas for new weapons devised by Princess Théra and Zomi Kidosu, enhanced with my input, could only sting the garinafins in a moment of surprise.

“I will have to draft every man, woman, and child, and fight a war of attrition for decades. Though I have ordered the deaths of many in my life, I cannot contemplate such a price, not even to avoid servitude.

“I’m sorry, Jia. I can see no way out other than to yield.”

“Zomi!” Aya jumped up and gave her a great big hug.

“How are your studies going?” Zomi asked.

“Ma makes me practice hard every day.” Aya pointed to the heavy stones in the corner. “I can lift three of those overhead at a time now. I’m sure I’ll soon be able to go to war with her.”

After a quick greeting, Gin Mazoti invited Zomi to stay and have lunch with her. They sat down together with Aya, much as they used to do in the palace at Nokida, when Queen Gin and her advisers would discuss the various policy matters of the kingdom.

Zomi brought out a large book and laid it on the table between them.

Gin recognized it as Gitré Üthu, the book that Luan Zya—now Zyaji—used to carry with him always. She had read the report of Luan Zyaji’s adventures, of course, but it was different to see the original manuscript itself. With trembling hands, she opened it and began to read.

On the last page was a message that Luan had written.

“What is this?” asked Aya.

“It’s a book written by your father,” said Gin.

“My father?” Aya didn’t know how to respond as she gazed at the signature on the last page. After a while, she said, “I thought you didn’t know who he was.”

A complicated series of expression flitted across Gin’s face.

“I lied,” she finally said. “The love between us was… difficult.”

“I wish I had known him,” said Aya. “Was that why you cried at his funeral?”

“I’m sorry,” said Gin. “I didn’t let him know about you or tell you about him because… I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“That you would love him more than… They were foolish fears, the products of vanity. I told you it was a difficult love.”

Aya got up and ran away from the table.

“I didn’t know my father either,” said Zomi. “I’ll go talk to her later.”

Gin shook her head. “She’s allowed to be mad at me. I was wrong. What could have been… We all must pay for the consequences of our actions.”

After an interval of silence, Zomi asked, “Did you see anything in Zyaji’s story that would help with defeating the pékyu?”

Gin shook her head. “Luan was a meticulous man, and he took excellent notes. But Pékyu Tenryo was a suspicious man, and he must have kept a close eye on Luan during the voyage back. I’ve thought a lot about what he wrote of the habits of the garinafins, but I don’t see anything that could be used to our advantage.”

“Théra is now studying the garinafin carcasses in depth, and I will go help her. It’s possible we’ll find a weakness heretofore unexplored.”

Gin smiled. “The young are always so hopeful.”

“Have you given up, Marshal?”

Gin waited a beat, then said, “The currents of life are sometimes stronger than we are, Zomi. Look at how carefully and strenuously the emperor, the empress, and your teacher all planned and fought for their lives. But sometimes fate is like that great oceanic current, which sweeps away all our plans and desires as so much debris.

“I think the Fluxists are right—there is a time to fight, and a time to yield.”

The weeklong Lantern Festival was here.

Even in a time of war, life in the Islands of Dara marched on in its habitual rhythm. If anything, the celebrations seemed even more exciting than usual, as though the festival mood was made sharper by a hint of desperation.

After repeated entreaties from Aya, Gin Mazoti finally yielded and took her out to see the festivities. They went out at dusk, the best time to see the lanterns. Every shop, store, inn, and house in Pan seemed festooned with lanterns fashioned out of bamboo, paper, and silk: Some spun with the heat of the candles inside, others fluttered with the wind.

The lanterns shone in colors as varied as the new dresses and robes worn by the young men and women in the streets: bright red, dazzling gold, jade green, ocean blue. Some were painted with scenes from the ancient sagas, and as they spun, the pictures seemed to come alive, showing the Hegemon galloping on Réfiroa or Iluthan sailing away, the Queen of Écofi pining after him on the beach. Food hawkers called out the names of their wares, accompanied by scents that stirred the appetite: skewers of grilled shark steak, spiced after the fashion of Dasu; small bowls of sweet dumplings filled with sesame and coconut meat from Arulugi; sorghum flatbread baked in the traditional Cocru manner, where buyers could tell their fortune by observing the patterns left by the oven…

Aya wanted to try everything, and Gin happily obliged.

“Do you want to try some puffer-fish soup?” a voice asked.

Gin looked up and saw that the speaker was Soto Zyndu.

Lady Soto bowed to Gin. “Excuse my rudeness for not going into jiri. My hand is occupied, as you can see.”

Soto was holding a small porcelain bowl. The vendor at the stall had filled it with a ladleful of hot steaming soup with noodles and a piece of translucent white flesh.

Aya looked quite interested.

“I don’t think so,” said Gin, pulling her back. “I’ve never quite understood the desire to tempt fate that way.”

“If we are all to become slaves of the Lyucu, perhaps death will not be such a terrifying prospect.”

Gin’s face darkened. “Lady Soto, watch your tongue. This is an occasion of joy.”

“Ma! I want to try it! All these people have had it and they’re fine.”

“Absolutely not,” said Gin. She started to walk away, dragging Aya behind her.

Soto called out, “I never thought the famed Queen Gin, the emperor’s marshal, would be revealed to be a coward.”

Gin whipped around. With an effort, she tamped down her anger and kept her voice low. “Do not think that I don’t know what you’re doing. I’m not some foolish street brawler who can be goaded into a fight just because you call me a coward. Everyone who has fought with me knows that I’m not afraid to die, but I also don’t believe in throwing away the lives of the soldiers under my command uselessly.”

“So you are not only a coward, but also arrogant.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you think all the soldiers are your children, who need you to tell them what they should think? You are consumed with visions of draftees dying meaningless deaths, but not all men fight only because they’ve been told to. Come with me.”

Angry and confused, Gin took Aya and followed Soto Zyndu to a carriage parked by the side of the street and got in. As soon as they sat down, the carriage started moving, slowly winding its way through the festival crowd toward the edge of the city.

Gin peeked through the curtains over the window at the families thronging the streets. The Lantern Festival was a celebration of the light and renewal of spring, when the ghosts of ancestors were supposed to join the living in harmony and joy. It was a time to be together with family, and Gin’s eyes grew warm as she thought about Luan Zyaji—she wished the last time they had seen each other had gone differently. She pulled Aya close to her, and the young girl seemed to sense her mother’s mood and did not squirm away as was her wont.

The carriage exited the city and eventually stopped. Gin stepped out and saw that they were at the parade ground where the emperor and his wives would observe the military parades every year in the fall, after the harvest. This time of the year the parade ground should be deserted.

But by the last light of dusk, she could see that the ground was packed with people. Their ranks were so dense and stretched out so far that she could barely see to the end.

Soto Zyndu extended a hand and invited her to ascend the dais in front of the parade ground. As though in a dream, Gin climbed up and surveyed the soldiers in front of her.

They were a varied lot. Some wore the regular uniforms of the Imperial army and flew the standard of Dara—she recognized some of the hundred-chiefs who had served under her during the Chrysanthemum-Dandelion War; some flew the flag of the rebels of Arulugi, with its blue field—inherited from the ancient flag of Amu—charged with the golden carp of Tututika; some flew the flag of her old domain, Géjira, which was parted quarterly in black and white—a reference to her prowess on the cüpa board—and charged with a water mill, the foundation of Géjira’s industrial strength and manufacturing; some even flew the chrysanthemum flag of the Hegemon, a sight that could have been viewed as treason; there was also a group of women to the side, some old, some quite young, but all dressed in the old uniform of the Dasu women’s auxiliaries, a force that Gin had founded during the Chrysanthemum-Dandelion War….

From the crowd, she could pick out the standards of almost all the old Tiro states as well as fiefs that had been abolished by the emperor during Jia’s campaign to weaken the founding noble families, Kuni’s old generals. Never could anyone have imagined that all of them would stand side by side on the same parade ground.

“What…” Gin was at a loss for words.

Soto Zyndu walked up next to her on the dais. She shouted, “Men and women of Dara, what do you want?”

The crowd below the dais let out a tsunami of voices that shook the floor beneath Gin’s feet.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!”

“Victory is unlikely,” said Soto. “It’s possible, no, probable, that all of you will die and Dara will still fall. The battle goes not always to the righteous, and evil sometimes does triumph.”

“Fight! Fight! Fight!”

Soto gestured at the assembled soldiers, and a few leaders pushed through the crowd to come stand at the base of the dais.

“Why do you want to fight?” asked Gin Mazoti. “Even though you know defeat is almost certain?”

“It’s more important to die free than to live as slaves,” said Cano Tho of Arulugi. “The emperor may have pardoned my act of rebellion, but I will not be able to lift my head in front of Princess Kikomi on the other shore of the River-on-Which-Nothing-Floats if I did otherwise.”

“The Hegemon would have fought,” said Mota Kiphi of Tunoa, one of the followers of the ill-fated rebellion in Tunoa by Noda Mi and Doru Solofi. He smiled and nodded at Aya, who had once been impressed by his prowess at lifting weights. “And so will I.”

“We might once have been ambitious,” said Doru Solofi. “But even we understand that in front of a threat like the Lyucu, all of us must band together.”

“The emperor has been exceedingly generous with us,” said his onetime coconspirator, Noda Mi. “He’s forgiven us for our past trespasses, and we want to pay him back with redoubled loyalty. You should do the same, Marshal!”

“My uncle was a gentle soul who trusted all strangers as brothers,” said Gori Ruthi, Zato Ruthi’s nephew, as he stepped forward. The grief awakened in his heart by his words was so sharp that he stumbled and almost fell, but his wife, Lady Ragi, held him up. “I will strike down the Lyucu so that we can trust strangers again.”

“My brother once said that I chose the wrong lord,” said Dafiro Miro. “I will prove him wrong.”

“I have never picked up a sword in my life,” said Naro Hun, widower of General Mün Çakri. “But I will give my life to avenge my husband. And should I fall as well, I hope our son will fight on in our stead.”

“I’m no fighter,” said Naroca Huza, onetime rival of Zomi Kidosu at the Palace Examination and one of the most prominent merchants of Géjira. “But all my wealth is at your disposal, Marshal, for even men of commerce love freedom.”

Gin listened to the speeches of the leaders of the assembled multitudes, a complex set of emotions warring within her heart. Was it right to give up without a fight? Even if fighting meant certain defeat?

Soto Zyndu came to her with a sword. It was so heavy that she could only drag it along the ground. “Unsheathe this.”

As though in a dream, Gin gripped the handle with both hands and pulled the sword out of its sheath. Though she was strong, it still took some effort for her to lift it so that it pointed to the sky. She was very familiar with this legendary sword, though she had never held it.

“This is Na-aroénna, the Doubt-Ender. My nephew was the last to wield it. Whenever he unsheathed it, he had no more doubt.”

Gin looked at Soto. “But he lost and died, and many died with him. His lack of doubt was wrong.”

Soto shook her head. “You misunderstand. On that last night at Rana Kida, Mata released all his men from the obligations they owed him as their lord. Those who fought with him until his last stand by the sea fought willingly, having no doubt that victory was impossible.”

Gin was silent for a moment. “I am not the Hegemon. The storytellers do not embellish my deeds with myth and legend. I’m just an ordinary woman who knows how to make a living with a sword.”

“You are much more than that,” said Soto. “You have always been solicitous of the lives and thoughts of your soldiers. You abolished whippings and stockades in the army, preferring to instill discipline by rewarding initiative and providing useful training. You earned loyalty not by fear and intimidation, but by listening to the soldiers and giving them better shoes and taking care of their families. You gave the women of Dara a chance to fight for their own future. How can you be so blind now to their desires?

“It isn’t the achievement of victory that makes a leader noble, but the willingness to fight for what is right in her heart even when defeat is certain. Fithowéo is the god of not just victors, but also those who fall for a just cause. Insist on seeing, even when all around you is darkness.

“All the Ano sages wrote about the unpredictability of life, and they agreed that there is nothing free of doubt in this life except the fact that we will all die. But death can come in many forms: Some are heavier than Mount Fithowéo, and some are more inconsequential than a feather in the wind. It is not your place to deny the right of each man and woman to choose how they wish to achieve that death.”

“If even the gods of Dara have not shown any signs that they favor our cause, how can I know that this is the right path?” Gin asked. “I was not born with double-pupiled eyes, knowing that I was destined for greatness. I did not slaughter a great white python in the mountains and have rainbows point the way for my wife.”

“There are no born heroes, and legends are just stories. Gin, you know that truth as well as I. But the world sometimes demands a man or a woman to step forward to embody the will of the many, and thus are legends and heroes born. True courage comes not from being certain and unafraid, but from doing what must be done even while being terrified and full of doubts.”

Gin closed her eyes. She thought of the gang leader in her youth who had maimed children while she stood by, helpless. She thought of the men and women of Rui, chained to each other while Pékyu Tenryo calmly ordered their slaughter. Evil existed in this world; it had to be confronted.

She opened her eyes and raised Na-aroénna. The last light of the sun caught its tip as she led the crowd in a chant. The voices swelled until it seemed the very heavens shook and the first twinkling stars trembled.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!”

^{CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE} DISCOVERIES

Rumors spread around Dara that the Lyucu had found a permanent passage through the Wall of Storms and were sending reinforcements of hundreds more garinafins and thousands more warriors. It was said that they could conquer all of Dara within weeks. Fishermen were terrified of going out to sea lest they encounter the city-ships of the Lyucu, and everyone looked up at the sky from time to time, thinking that the barbarians could descend from the heavens at any moment.

Wealthy merchants became more reluctant to pay taxes, and the landed gentry and even some of the local administrators and lesser enfeoffed nobles began to plan for what they saw as an inevitable future. They whispered to each other, trying to ascertain what kind of deals they could strike with their soon-to-be foreign overlords to preserve advantages for themselves and their families. Some hoarded treasures, hoping that by offering them judiciously they could escape the fate of complete enslavement; some began to lecture their wives and daughters on their duties to the family, laying the groundwork for offering them to the barbarian chieftains when the right moment arrived to save their own skins; everyone stockpiled food and necessities, believing that no matter what happened, a time of hardship was about to arrive, and merchants took advantage of the general panic to profiteer.

To counter the gloomy and panicky mood, Prime Minister Cogo Yelu came up with a plan for Consort Risana and Prince Phyro to go on a tour around Dara to assure the people and rally support for the Dandelion Throne. They even cajoled King Kado out of retirement to play a minor role.

Lady Risana designed careful spectacles featuring popular actors in elaborate costumes accompanied by rousing lyrics and catchy music. At every performance, a smoky fog representing the primordial mist filled the stage as large bamboo-and-silk islands rose out of it. While actors paraded across them, enacting famous episodes from Dara’s long history—from the arrival of the Ano on these islands filled with savage natives to the celebration of the founding of the Dandelion Dynasty by a united people, from the legendary heroes of the Diaspora Wars to the more recent tales of the Chrysanthemum-Dandelion War, from the most quotable Ano sages to folksy inventors, from lyrical poets to wise judges and administrators—the mist gradually spilled over the edge of the stage and enveloped the mesmerized audience, making them part of the pageantry.

The climax of every show was the arrival of Prince Phyro on the back of a mechanical cruben constructed from papier-mâché and operated by a team of men crawling underneath. The music rose to a crescendo as the prince stepped onto the soil of Rui and slew the papier-mâché garinafins on the island with powerful strokes from his sword. And then, Emperor Ragin—played by Kado Garu, who looked very much like the emperor, his younger brother—emerged from a trapdoor in the floor of the stage to thank his son and the people.

This wish-fulfilling sketch of the future, of course, was a calculated echo of Kuni’s legendary cruben ride to Rui, a part of his surprise assault on Pan during the rebellion against the Xana Empire.

Then, as the prince and the emperor stood astride the carcasses of the garinafins, each holding up a severed, antlered head, a bright mirror representing the moon rose behind them and cast a magnified image across the theater to a white screen behind the audience. When the audience twisted their necks around to look behind them, they gasped as they were greeted by the sight of the eight gods of Dara smiling and nodding as the light flickered in the fragrant smoke that filled the auditorium—the magic mirrors whose secrets Théra had discovered had found a new use.

Though the propaganda message of the spectacles was transparent, they did work. History, cleansed and given a fresh coat of paint, was often far more powerful than any myth. The plays assured the population that the Dandelion Dynasty was firmly in charge; that the marshal, though she had once rebelled, had had a change of heart, and with the gracious support of the empress, was now coming up with a brilliant and devious strategy that would destroy the Lyucu and rescue the emperor and Prince Timu; that the people of Dara were the inheritors of a long and illustrious tradition of greatness; that the Lyucu, as savages who lacked strategic foresight or the benefits of civilization, were doomed to fail despite temporary gains.

After the conclusion of the spectacles, Phyro made passionate speeches exhorting the population to support the war effort: Obey the law, focus on living lives as before, punish profiteers, ignore defeatist rumors, and most important of all, pay taxes and lend money to the Imperial Treasury to help the troops. Clerks then set up tables to collect the pledges of the audience—led by the VIPs—for purchasing war bonds.

Cogo, the master of logistics, calculated that after the devastation brought to Rui and Dasu during the emperor’s invasion, the Lyucu would need the entire summer and the fall harvest to recover and prepare before they could invade the Big Island. The empress did everything she could to give the marshal more time to prepare for that assault by sending messages to the Lyucu to suggest that the Dandelion Court was coming close to a decision on surrender.

Although many young men wanted to join the army as a result of the performances of Consort Risana and Prince Phyro, the marshal relied only on the ragtag troops she had met assembled on the parade ground that day. Though she had been convinced that there was meaning in fighting this hopeless war, she firmly believed in only leading men and women who were fully aware of the truth and fought out of free choice.

Though the chill between Cogo Yelu and Gin Mazoti as a result of the prime minister’s role in the marshal’s downfall had not dissolved, Gin did find the funds that Cogo’s propaganda tour brought in helpful. She poured the money into upgrading the equipment for her small army: hiring the best bladesmiths of old Rima and mining pure sky iron to produce armor and weapons made out of expensive thousand-hammered steel; building underwater crubens that were faster and could stay underwater longer to avoid detection by flying garinafins; purchasing rare herbs that Empress Jia formulated into potent mixtures that allowed the troops to bulk up faster and recover energy with little sleep—Jia even came up with a new mixture that allowed the troops to go without sleep for days, though at the cost of some long-term damage to their bodies, but almost every single member of the volunteer force wanted to take the drug.

Most of the money, however, went to the research laboratories in Ginpen. Secret, secure facilities were quickly constructed to house the carcasses of the dead garinafins that Than Carucono’s mechanical crubens had ferried back, and Cogo Yelu dispatched spies to every corner of Dara to seek out men and women of talent who might have some surprising technique for overcoming the garinafins.

The marshal didn’t have much hope that such research would yield useful results—putting her hopes on that outcome would be akin to relying on the occurrence of a miracle—but she was determined to give her troops the best chance possible, even if she was convinced that the task was ultimately hopeless.

Zomi Kidosu and Princess Théra worked alongside the surgeons, veterinarians, and anatomy specialists in Ginpen to dissect and learn the secrets of the garinafins.

They worked at a lab located inside a giant coastal cave. This facility was the brainchild of the head of the Imperial laboratories, Kita Thu, one of the Haan pana méji who had participated in the Palace Examination alongside Zomi Kidosu years ago. Though he had not wanted this post at the time, the instinct of the emperor and Consort Risana turned out to be correct, and over the years, Kita had grown into an able leader of scholars who was skilled at fulfilling unusual needs.

He secreted the carcasses away inside the cave as soon as they arrived and set up a system of wagons to keep them packed with ice to prevent corruption, paying the expenses out of his family’s wealth even before he had Imperial funding. To most of the merchants and drivers who supplied the laboratory’s needs, the facility was presented as some kind of Imperial warehouse intended to preserve seafood that could be consumed in the off-season. As the weather warmed, the wagons had to go as far as the glaciers of the Damu Mountains to harvest the ice, and the laboratory’s expenses ballooned.

It was imperative that they learn what they could from the carcasses as soon as possible.

With the new war-bond funding from Pan, Kita redoubled his efforts. He expanded the cave and divided it into multiple dissection rooms so that pieces of the carcass could be studied in parallel. A system of carefully drilled holes and mirrors directed filtered sunlight to illuminate the interior of the cave, and he designed a concave frame with numerous refracting glass lenses to be placed over the dissection tables so that no shadows would block the view of the operating surgeon or dissector. To cut through the tough skin, muscle, and tendons of the giant beasts, he commissioned diamond-tipped scalpels to ensure the cuts would be smooth during the dissection process and avoid damaging the tissues needlessly with hacking and sawing. He set up several windmills on top of the cliffs above the cave, from where a series of gears and belts transferred the power down into the lab, where they operated heavy machines for lifting and moving the carcass around. Since the entire space was maintained at near-freezing temperature, everyone working inside had to dress as though it was deep winter. Except for scholars and workmen approved to work on the project, no one was allowed anywhere near the hidden laboratory: Lyucu spies and sympathizers might well attempt to sabotage the work being done here, and whatever revelations they might learn would be military secrets.

At first, the various experts were skeptical of the presence of Théra. Most thought the tales of her contributions to the suppression of the rebellion in Tunoa exaggerated, an instance of Imperial mythmaking, and more than a few grumbled that she was nothing more than a spoiled princess inserting herself among learned men to seek thrills or some sense of relevance.

It didn’t help matters that Théra almost immediately insisted on the addition of two other scholars who had not been on the list of approved researchers drawn up by a select committee of the Imperial Academy Council. Çami Phithadapu was a young woman scholar from Rui who had barely placed among the firoa in the Imperial examinations the previous year, and Mécodé Zégate was a woman cashima of Haan ancestry who had grown up in Tunoa.

Both had been beneficiaries of Kuni Garu’s Golden Carp Program, though even Théra didn’t know that.

“Why these two in particular?” Kita Thu asked, frowning.

“Kita, you have almost no women among the researchers.”

“That’s because there are no qualified women candidates.” Kita paused, wondering if this could be construed as an insult to the princess. He tried to be ingratiating. “Your Highness is an exception, of course, as is special adviser Zomi Kidosu.”

“Although there are not nearly as many women who have passed the Imperial examinations as men, there are some,” said Théra. “Also, since this project requires us to make novel discoveries, it’s important to have a broad spectrum of opinions and views.”

“Originality of thinking is a quality of the mind, not of sex,” scoffed Kita Thu.

Théra persisted. “Because of their different life experiences, women may well provide fresh insights not available from traditional candidates. Unique among the examinees, Çami used her essay last year to discuss evidence of midwifery being practiced by whales, and Mécodé is well known as an expert on the history of herbal lore derived from animals’ attempts at curing their own illnesses. Their interest in these traditionally neglected subjects show originality of thinking.”

Kita wasn’t convinced, but he relented and added the two women to the staff.

Aware of the skepticism directed at her, Théra chose to ignore the climate of mild hostility and threw herself into the work. She labored alongside the other scholars: climbing over the gigantic carcasses with rough cables and sharp hooks, never complaining about the danger; lifting and shifting massive limbs and cutting body parts without showing any sign that such physical labor was beneath her; plunging her arms deep into the blood and fat without concern until her face was spattered with gore and her body steeped in the stench of garinafin viscera. She listened to the talk of the scholars with care, and did not interrupt the discussions with her opinions.

She acted less like a princess of Dara and more like one of the apprentices or students of the scholars.

“Why do you never say anything?” asked Zomi when the two of them were by themselves. “I know you want to contribute.”

Théra smiled at her. “Do you recall the legend of the Phaédo bird?”

“As told by Ra Oji?

Théra nodded. “There is a time to assert your opinion, and a time to play the dutiful student. Timing is everything, in war as well as in debate—especially when one is seen as an outsider.”

Zomi sighed. Théra seemed to have a far better grasp of the flow of currents of power than she did—a weakness that Luan had warned her about years ago.

Worried about Théra’s health, Zomi devised a silk mask for her so that she wouldn’t get sick from the garinafin gore that splashed onto her face and the fumes from the medicinal water in which they preserved detached garinafin organs. Théra was delighted, and a warmth suffused Zomi’s heart as she watched the grateful princess.

“Would you mind if I asked the craftsmen to make these for everyone?” Théra asked, holding Zomi by the hand.

Zomi’s face flushed. She berated herself for not thinking through how it would look if only the princess had special equipment. She concentrated on the sensation of the princess’s fingers against her palm—they were rough from wielding heavy tools against tough garinafin skin, but Zomi thought they were lovely and smooth beyond measure. She nodded.

“I’ll embroider some zomi berries on this one so that no one will mistake it for theirs,” said Théra. “It’s special; you made it.”

For hours afterward Zomi caressed her own palm, trying to re-create the warmth of Théra’s hand.

In contrast to the guarded reception given Princess Théra, Zomi Kidosu had everyone’s respect from the get-go as the foremost pana méji in the Imperial examination from two sessions ago. She soon established herself as one of the leading experts on the garinafins, as she had read Luan Zyaji’s accounts many times, and her own detailed notes from observing the creatures in action in Rui proved invaluable in connecting the anatomical features of the garinafins with their behavior.

Working side by side at a joint task brought Zomi and Théra even closer. As they navigated and climbed around a mountainous maze made of garinafin guts, they kept up a constant stream of chatter and laughter, as though they were strolling through a lovely garden and commenting upon the exotic flowers.

With the best minds of Dara at work, the scholars huddled inside the ice cave on the coast of Haan made steady progress toward their first goal: understanding the mystery of the garinafin’s fire breath, an ability that had no equivalent in the fauna of Dara.

Once they cut through the skin and muscle of the garinafins, the scholars found a network of membranous sacs that filled the body cavity.

“These must be similar to the sacs inside the torso of the Mingén falcons,” reasoned Atharo Ye, a noted Patternist scholar of Rui who had served in the court of Emperor Mapidéré as one of the Xana Empire’s airship engineers. He was a descendant of the great engineer Kino Ye, who had committed sacrilege to dissect the Mingén falcons and learned the secret of the lift gas that powered the flight of the great raptors. From time to time, Atharo enjoyed puffing on a coral pipe stuffed with rich tobacco from Faça, and though the smoke lingered in the ice cave, none of the other scholars dared to object given his prominence.

“Even with hollow and light bones, as well as gigantic wings, it appears that these creatures still need the assistance of such sacs for flight,” Atharo continued.

“But that means that they are as dependent on the lift gas as our airships,” said an excited Çami Phithadapu, who made it a point to speak up and not let herself be intimidated by so many well-known scholars around her—a habit that irritated many of the older, established scholars. “If we can cut off their supply, the garinafins will eventually become earthbound.”

Zomi shook her head. “I’m not convinced. I don’t recall the Lyucu sending the beasts to Lake Dako to replenish their supply of lift gas. And there was no mention of a supply of lift gas in Master Zyaji’s accounts of the lands of Ukyu and Gondé. Such an important feature surely would have drawn his interest.”

“It’s possible that the lift gas is far more plentiful in their land than ours, such that the Lyucu did not treat it as a rare resource or make note of it,” said Atharo.

“But how were they able to sustain the supply of lift gas for so long on their voyage across the ocean?” asked Çami.

Atharo dismissed this objection with an impatient wave of his hand. “Our airships leak gas but slowly, and with careful maintenance and pooling the lift gas supply between ships, we can fly them for years before needing to refill.”

“But the garinafins don’t seem to be able to maintain flight for long,” said Zomi. “All the evidence shows that they can fly for but a few hours at a time before needing to land. If they are reliant on stored lift gas, one would expect them to be able to stay aloft indefinitely.”

“Hmm…” Atharo Ye had to admit that this was a rather good point. “Let me examine these sacs some more.”

He located one of the sacs that was still full of gas and carefully severed it from the attached blood vessels, air tubes, and other tissue. Then he tied off the small tubes with a length of string, and, holding on to the string, let the sac go.

The sac, almost three feet across, rose into the air, pulling the string taut.

“Lighter than air, as suspected,” said Atharo.

Next, he took a sharpened hollow reed and stuck it into the sac. The gas hissed out of the tube.

“Master Ye,” Princess Théra interrupted. Since she rarely spoke, everyone turned to look at her. “I think it prudent to be cautious with an unknown gas. Perhaps it’s best to use one of the smaller dissection—”

Atharo Ye waved at her impatiently. “I’ve been working with lift gas since before you were even an idea in the minds of your parents. I know very well what is safe and what is not.” He closed his eyes and took a deep whiff of the escaping gas. “There’s no smell at all. Pure lift gas.”

He let the sac float over his head like a balloon, the hissing jet of gas from the still-leaking reed propelling it in circles like an airship. Then he took out his coral pipe filled with cured tobacco and gestured for one of the errand boys standing around to bring over a light for his pipe. Since the inside of the cave had to be kept chilled and illumination was provided by refracted and reflected sunlight, there was no lit torch or lamp around the lab. The boy had to run outside the cave and bring back a lit stick.

And just like that, the balloon over his head exploded into a fireball. As the boy yelped and jumped out of the way, the other scholars dove for cover. The fireball fell onto Atharo’s head and set his hair and clothes on fire. Atharo screamed and stumbled around, bumping into the dissection table. There was no ready source of water nearby. He was going to be severely injured by the fire.

The other scholars and guards were stunned and stood around helplessly.

“Your Highness!” Mécodé Zégate, the herbalist from Tunoa, ran up to Princess Théra. “Can I have your robe?”

Théra understood at once. “Good idea!” Without hesitation, she tore off the voluminous winter robe she was wearing, and, with Mécodé’s and Çami’s help, covered Atharo Ye’s flaming head and shoulders before pushing him to the ground. They rolled him along the ground until they were certain the flames had been extinguished.

Atharo sat up and slowly and removed Théra’s robe from his head like the veil of a bride. The fire had singed off his beard and much of his hair, but the injury to his face and neck was relatively light.

“You’ll be fine with an ointment of ice lilies and winter jelly,” said Mécodé after examining him. “It will sting terribly for a few days, though.”

“Thank you,” he said, looking at Théra, Çami, and Mécodé gratefully.

Meanwhile, Zomi calmly issued orders to everyone in the cave. “Get those doors open to let in some fresh air! Don’t cut open any more sacs from the garinafins, and make sure to never bring any fire in here.”

At another time, the sight of three women—one of them a princess in her undergarments—rolling an elder like a log on the ground might have generated titters or gossip, but everyone in the cave understood what a brave thing Théra, Çami, and Mécodé had done.

Kidosu started to clap, and everyone else soon joined in, filling the cave with loud peals of applause.

“You have certainly taught me a lesson,” said an embarrassed Atharo. “Just goes to show you that living for many years does not necessarily gain you any wisdom. How were you able to remain so calm and know what to do?”

Mécodé laughed. “Being from a poor family where I cooked for the whole household, I imagine I’ve spent many more hours in the kitchen than the rest of you put together. A skirt catching fire in the kitchen is a common accident, and I learned to deal with it. I imagine Çami had similar experiences.”

Çami nodded. “I might have been a good student, but I was still expected to cook for my brothers and parents.”

Atharo turned to Théra. “I can’t imagine you learned this technique from the kitchen, however.”

Théra grinned. “Not quite. When my father was a young man, his friend, Farsight Secretary Coda, was caught in a firebomb attack. My father had to figure out how to put out such a fire by separating the flames from air to save his friend. The story made quite an impression on me, and so I was able to put it into practice without much thought.”

Atharo nodded. “Thank the gods you are here.”

From then on, the scholars treated Théra, Çami, and Mécodé as full-fledged members of the team. When they offered opinions or observations, the others listened.

The shared trauma of losing their families to the depredations of the Lyucu and the work in the laboratory provided Zomi and Théra with a unique bond. The two took their meals together and spent hours on break discussing garinafin research, engineering principles, military tactics, and whatever else came to mind.

The investigation into the garinafins had slowed down as the scholars were mired in endless debate over the nature of the air sacs and how to reconcile them to the observed behavior of the beasts. There were too many theories and everyone was frustrated as Imperial messengers from Pan demanded updates every other day, reminding everyone of the looming war with the Lyucu.

There was a thundershower one day, and after the rain stopped, Théra convinced Zomi to take a break from their work and climb to the top of the cliffs.

“Isn’t this lovely?” said Théra. The tranquil ocean was a dark turquoise. A rainbow hung in the sky as the sun peeked out behind the clouds.

Zomi smiled and pointed at the rainbow.

“What?” Théra shaded her eyes and gazed in the direction Zomi was pointing, thinking she had spied something on the horizon.

Zomi smiled and pointed at the rainbow again.

“Is this a riddle?”

Zomi smiled and pointed at the rainbow again.

“I give up. Tell me what you’re trying to say.”

Zomi’s smile turned wistful. “My mother once told me a story about the gods and the Calendrical Dozen, and in that story Lord Lutho chose to answer every question posed to him this way. The gods are full of mysteries.”

“I’d like to hear that story sometime,” said Théra. “I wish I’d gotten to meet your mother.”

“Both my parents were good storytellers,” said Zomi. “And the story is better when told in the dialect of Dasu. I’ve been away from home so long I’ve lost my accent.”

Théra put a comforting arm around Zomi as they stood side by side. “We lose much as we grow up, but we also gain much. To get to where we are hasn’t been easy.”

The surrounding countryside looked as fresh as though it had just been painted on a canvas: lush green fields, deep-black sandy beach, the huts and houses glinting with washed red roof tiles and bright white walls.

“A great lady once told me that gazing upon a world reborn after the rain is one of the greatest pleasures in the world,” Théra said.

“It really is,” said Zomi. “I’m glad I listened to you and climbed up here. Though I don’t think I’d enjoy it half as much if I were here by myself.”

Théra smiled. The lady had said something like that, too.

Zomi sat down to fuss with her leg harness, as the climb had loosened some of the bindings.

“That’s a really amazing piece of machinery,” said Théra. She sat down beside Zomi to examine how the harness flexed and magnified the movements of Zomi’s weakened leg muscles.

“My teacher made this for me,” said Zomi. Her eyes dimmed for a moment. “If he were here now, I bet he would have already figured out the secrets of the garinafins. We’re making such slow progress that I feel like I’m letting him down.”

“I don’t think so,” said Théra. “Luan Zyaji was a great scholar, but he wasn’t a god. He was mortal like you and me. He believed the universe was knowable, and as long as we hold on to that belief and keep at it, I’m sure we’ll make a breakthrough.”

“How do you stay so cheerful?”

“I was taught that what we fill our hearts with has much more to do with our fates than our native talents or circumstances. I was named Dissolver of Sorrows, and I intend to live up to my name. If our situation seems hopeless, we can either give in to it and lament our fortune, or revise the script and chart ourselves a new course. We’re always the heroes of our own stories.”

“We’re always the heroes of our own stories,” Zomi repeated. She smiled for the first time in a long time.

“You know,” said Théra, “you’re beautiful when you smile.”

Zomi bristled. She had always been sensitive about maintaining a serious demeanor to prove she belonged among the ranks of the learned. “Are you telling me to smile more?”

“Not at all,” said Théra. “It makes me happy to see you happy, and I hope we’ll have more moments of genuine joy together.”

Zomi blushed. Few had ever commented on her appearance, given her disfigurement from that childhood experience with a lightning strike. But Théra’s comment made her heart grow light.

Théra giggled. “That red-faced look isn’t bad either. Did you know that you used to intimidate me? I was sure that you didn’t like me, because you were so impatient every time I tried to talk to you.”

Zomi laughed awkwardly. “I was arrogant and thought I knew everything. I’m sorry I used to be so rude.”

“I grew up with few other children who weren’t my siblings, and when I did get to spend some time with other girls my age, the difference in our statuses made it impossible to become close,” Théra mused. “I’m really glad we are working on this together.”

“Me too,” said Zomi. She swallowed and then continued, “I never told you this, but I’m grateful that you made me see that I was being a coward when I wanted to leave court after my betrayal of the marshal.”

“I only showed you what you already knew to be true in your heart,” said Théra. “A real friend is a mirror who reflects the truth back to us.”

“What if…” Zomi paused, and swallowed, looking into Théra’s expectant eyes. She forced herself to go on, her heart pounding. “I want to be more than friends?”

Théra blushed as her face broke into a radiant smile. “I thought I was playing the zither to the ruminating cow, but it turns out that I was the cow who was too afraid to dance!”

“Is that a… yes?” asked Zomi, her heart beating wildly.

Instead of answering, Théra wrapped her arms about Zomi and pulled her into a long, lingering kiss.

The sun sparkled against the sea, and a gentle breeze caressed the revitalized world.

The voices of two young women who had heard the voices in each other’s hearts, the music beneath the music, sang in perfect harmony:

A bandaged Atharo Ye returned to the investigation with gusto. Humbly, he asked Princess Théra and Zomi to assist him.

“There are too many theories being tossed about and not enough evidence,” said Atharo. “We need to do more, talk less.”

Cautiously, they cut another sac from one of the dead garinafins.

“How do we measure the qualities of this gas?” asked a frowning Atharo.

Zomi grinned. “We can weigh the fish.”

They inflated one of the empty sacs with the lift gas from one of the few messenger airships left under Imperial command until it was the same size as the sac from the garinafin. Then they tied various weights to the two sacs until both were buoyancy-neutral.

“The gas inside the garinafins is heavier than the gas bubbling out of Lake Dako,” Atharo concluded. “That’s why the other sac is able to carry a heavier weight.”

“That also means that the garinafins have less lift than the Mingén falcons and our airships,” said Zomi. “That explains the need for such large wings.”

“It’s also highly flammable, which means that it’s probably the source for the fire breath,” said Théra.

On a hunch, Théra asked that one of the canisters holding the gas that powered the marshal’s flamethrowers be brought to the cave. The same experiment was run to compare the gas extracted from the fermented manure with the gas from one of the garinafin sacs, and they were found to have identical weight.

“But how could the garinafins have access to manure gas?” asked the puzzled scholars.

Mécodé, the expert on the effects of various herbs on animal digestion, offered a possible answer. “The fermentation process that generates the gas for the flamethrowers may be similar to what happens inside these grass-eating creatures.”

Further dissection of the animals seemed to confirm the hypothesis. Like cattle and sheep, the garinafins had multichambered stomachs. It appeared that the grass had to be fermented in some of the earlier chambers, regurgitated, chewed, and swallowed again. The gas generated from the fermentation was then distributed and stored in the network of sacs found throughout the body. To prevent bloating, the gas slowly leaked out over time and had to be replenished.

“Breathing fire consumes the gas as well,” speculated Zomi. “This explains why the garinafins can’t fly for as long when they breathe fire. They need to replenish the gas supply by landing and eating.”

“Creation certainly is full of wonders,” said Atharo Ye. “The herbivores must have developed this ability as a defense mechanism. Makes me wonder what kind of other amazing creatures one might find in the lands of Ukyu and Gondé.”

Seeing these fearsome creatures as cud-chewing flying cattle certainly removed some of their mystique. The scholars immediately turned to debate how to take advantage of these discoveries and generate countermeasures.

More mysteries were revealed as the dissection continued.

Although the garinafins were clearly mammals, dissection of the two carcasses—both female—revealed partially formed eggs with hard shells, suggesting that they were oviparous.

“Mammals that lay eggs!” exclaimed Atharo Ye. “I never would have believed such a thing if I hadn’t seen them with my own eyes.”

Looking inside the eggs yielded even more surprises.

“And unlike most egg-laying animals we know, the embryos develop at least partly inside the mother before the eggs are even laid,” mused Çami, who was knowledgeable about prenatal development in domestic fowl. “We may not know a lot about the process of garinafin birth, but anyone can see that these three-winged and six-limbed monstrosities aren’t normal and probably aren’t viable.”

“Do you think this garinafin was sick?” asked Princess Théra.

“Possible. But it’s also possible that something is wrong with the environment. After all, the garinafins are in a foreign land, and they may lack some essential nourishment necessary for reproduction.”

“You know, it’s interesting that we haven’t seen any juvenile garinafins so far,” said Zomi. “We know that the Lyucu rely on having juvenile garinafins around to control their parents. If the garinafins are having trouble birthing young, then the Lyucu might be losing control of their mounts as well.”

This seemed a promising prospect, but there was still too little evidence to justify optimism.

Once the preliminary work of dissecting the garinafins was done, the scholars divided into teams focusing on different areas of further research.

Since the garinafins were similar to cattle in their habits and digestive anatomy, Mécodé reasoned that perhaps they would suffer from the same digestive diseases and vulnerabilities.

“And I know just the person to ask for advice about cattle,” said Théra.

She took one of the messenger airships and headed for the highlands of Faça.

Lu Matiza was happy to have her granddaughter visit, but she was much less happy to hear what she wanted.

“Why do you want to spend time with the ranch hands? If you want to know about cattle, just ask me.”

“Grandma, you may know all about keeping a ranch running smoothly and ensuring that the business hums along, but what I need is practical knowledge, the sort of thing that only those who get their hands dirty can tell me.”

No matter how much Lu Matiza tried to explain to Théra that it was inappropriate for a princess of Dara to live and work among the rough ranch hands—could she imagine what the gossips would say about her and about her family?—Théra would not listen to reason. She insisted that she had to learn what she needed to know from the only teacher who mattered: experience.

Lu sighed. This stubborn granddaughter reminded her exactly of young Jia.

“Your mother never listened to me either.”

This piqued Théra’s interest. “What about?”

“Oh, everything. I told her not to run around with the wild village children playing dangerous games during the summer; I begged her to focus more on embroidery and dance and not spend every moment digging for herbs; I had so many matchmakers storming out of the house after she mocked them. You should have heard the arguments we had.”

Théra imagined a younger version of her mother resisting marriage proposals in favor of other more exciting pursuits. Considering the history of their own tense relationship, it was more than a little ironic. But the story somehow made her feel closer to Jia as well.

In the end, Grandma Lu relented. She comforted herself by recalling the fact that even though Jia had refused to obey her and Gilo and insisted on marrying Kuni Garu, things had worked out for the best in the end. Maybe it was all right to let the daughters of the Matiza family do as they liked.

And so, for a few weeks, Théra became one of Lu Matiza’s ranch hands—she forbade her grandmother from revealing her real identity to her coworkers so that she could learn what was really involved in caring for cattle. Théra learned to eat dried biscuits and jerky for dinner, to drink the hot brew made from roasted chicory root to stay warm and alert, to laugh and tell bawdy jokes around a campfire, to sleep in the fields under a sky full of stars while wrapped in a cozy spring cocoon-blanket, to shovel manure into a processing pit, to drive the cattle from pasture to pasture during good weather, and to shelter them during the rainy days in barns and fill their feeding troughs with fragrant hay. With the constant exertion and a seemingly endless series of chores that had to be performed, her hands became rough and her skin tanned, and she could feel strength filling her limbs.

The ranch hands fretted about the Lyucu and shared outrageous rumors, and Théra tried to calm them without revealing who she was. It was a difficult juggling act, and she was gnawed constantly by worry that she might be too late to discover the one nugget of information that would change everything.

She learned what a marvel the ruminant stomach was and how careful one had to be in directing what went into it. One couldn’t just feed whatever plant material was at hand to cattle and hope for the best. Switching from one mix of grass or hay to another had to be done gradually and carefully, lest the cattle fall sick from bloat and poisoning. What was good for people to eat was not at all good to feed to cattle. The ruminant’s stomach had to be babied and the excrement of the cattle carefully examined to infer the state of the mysterious digestive process inside the cattle that turned grass and hay into milk, meat, and other by-products.

By the time she was ready to return to Ginpen with her findings, she had in mind a plan that she was rather proud of.

Zomi Kidosu, meanwhile, was consumed with the mystery of just how the garinafins turned the flammable lift gas into actual tongues of flames.

While the marshal’s flamethrowers relied on a pilot light, examination of the oral cavity and the upper digestive tract of the garinafins revealed no structure capable of supporting such a thing. Neither was there any sign of metal or flint to generate a spark.

The other scholars came up with elaborate theories to explain how the beasts ignited their fire breath: Perhaps the animals’ bodies contained some kind of essence that could spontaneously burst into flames; or perhaps they had learned to grind their teeth together with such force and speed as to create incendiary heat—much as travelers lost in the woods could create fire by rubbing sticks together; or maybe the eyes of the beasts could focus sunlight like the curved mirrors of old Haan into fire inside their skulls?

None of these theories found any support in the actual anatomy of the garinafins. Eventually, most of the scholars abandoned the topic as an unsolvable puzzle and turned to other—hopefully more crackable—garinafin riddles.

But Zomi could not let the mystery go. She sent out word to the farseers to gather and collect knowledge of novel ways of starting fire, hoping to learn something that would lead to a breakthrough.

^{CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR} THE AID OF TAN ADÜ

Dafiro Miro came to Tan Adü. It had been twenty years since he had last set foot on this southernmost of the Islands of Dara.

True to the promise he had made to Chief Kyzen in exchange for the Adüans’ help with calling the crubens to the aid of the rebellion, Emperor Ragin had forbidden all his military commanders and nobles from waging war against the Adüans. During the last two decades, the only men of Dara who had come here were traders and missionaries of the various gods, and from time to time, Adüans in search of adventure would return with them to the other islands to satisfy their curiosity about the larger world.

Slowly but surely, life on Tan Adü was changing: Porcelain, lacquerware, and even silk could be found in the households of some of the Adüan chieftains, and Chief Kyzen himself had even reluctantly agreed to hire scribes from Dara to record the histories and legends of his people in writing so as to create a more secure repository than talk-story. These changes were hotly debated among the chieftains and the other members of the tribes, but the choices were being made by the tribes themselves rather than imposed under threat of conquest.

Chief Kyzen, who had become so familiar with the vernacular of Dara that he no longer needed an interpreter to converse with Emperor Ragin’s emissaries, received Dafiro warmly.

“Is the All-Chief well?” asked Kyzen, a teasing smile on the corners of his lips. “When he came to me the first time, he gave me a pretty speech about overthrowing Mapidéré the tyrant. But in the end, I guess he couldn’t resist the temptation to be All-Chief himself!”

Dafiro bristled at this accusation against his lord.

Kyzen laughed. “I’m only teasing. It’s good to see that Kuni Garu’s men are still as loyal as ever. Word of the prosperity and peace under Emperor Ragin has reached even my old ears via the nimble traders of Dara, as out of the way as this island is. There is no shame in wanting power, so long as one wishes to wield it for the benefit of the people. Besides, Kuni has always kept his promise of leaving the Adüans alone, and I appreciate that.”

“The emperor is in mortal danger,” said Dafiro. He proceeded to update the chief on all that had been happening in Dara after the coming of the Lyucu.

“Is it as bad as that?” asked a thoughtful Kyzen. “Do you think there’s no chance you will prevail? Kuni Garu and his advisers, especially Toru-noki, have always been resourceful.”

Dafiro shook his head. “Master Luan Zya, now honored as Zyaji, is dead, giving his life in a last attempt to stop the Lyucu. The marshal, who is the greatest war leader I have ever followed, does not speak of hope.”

“And so you’ve come to us again for aid.”

Dafiro nodded. “I convinced the marshal to let me try. If the great crubens once helped the emperor to reach the Throne of Dara—indeed, the banner of Dara still honors that episode—perhaps they will help the emperor and the people of Dara again in this dark moment.”

“And why should Tan Adü be involved?”

“The Lyucu intend not just conquest, but enslavement. I have told you the savagery of their ways. The Islands of Dara shelter Tan Adü now like lips shielding teeth from a wintry blast. But if the lips are gone, will the teeth not feel the chill?”

Kyzen closed his eyes and pondered the request, slowly puffing on his horn pipe. Dafiro held his breath and waited.

Finally, Kyzen opened his eyes. “Have the gods of Dara not given you signs of their will?”

“The gods of Dara, as you know, have pledged not to interfere in the affairs of mankind, at least not directly.”

“But that is an elaboration after the Diaspora Wars. They could agree to dissolve a pact as easily as to make it.”

Dafiro had always wondered about the religious practices of the Adüans. “Do you pray to the same gods as we do?”

“That… is a surprisingly complicated question,” said Chief Kyzen. “I once thought we did, but the real answer is neither yes nor no. Come with me.”

Chief Kyzen took Dafiro to a large hut constructed from a bamboo-and-wood frame covered with thatching grass and reeds. The hut was airy and open, and the walls were lined with many shelves filled with statues carved from coconut, wood, and whalebone.

Dafiro looked to Chief Kyzen for more explanation.

“In the days of the Tiro states, the kings of Amu and Cocru frequently tried to conquer us. Though they never succeeded in taking this island, their raiders did rob us of the treasures we inherited from our ancestors. When some of our young went to Dara to study your arts, I asked them to go to the All-Chief and the Lords of Dara and plead for the return of these artifacts. Many had been destroyed in the intervening years, but some did make their way home.”

Dafiro examined the statues more closely. They were not carved after the fashion of Dara. Some had heads so large that the torso and limbs seemed an afterthought; others melded human features with the features of sharks, whales, birds, lizards, or fish; still others bore no resemblance to humans at all, but appeared to be exotic creatures of the deep. Many of the statues were decorated with bits of coral and shells, and their broken, incomplete form showed their age.

“Were these… your gods?” asked Dafiro, awe infusing his voice.

“As I told you: The answer is both yes and no.”

“I don’t understand,” said Dafiro.

“The scholars and officials who watched over the trophy archives of the ancient Tiro kings certainly thought these were our gods, and when we explained that we did not pray to the statues but only wanted them back because they had been passed down by our ancestors, the scholars of Dara were astounded.”

“As am I,” said Dafiro. “Do you not have stories concerning these statues?”

“There are hundreds of these statues, and even when I was a boy, the elders of the tribes did not know the names of all the statues we had kept, much less the names and tales of the statues that had been lost. Such is the nature of talk-story that some old tales are forgotten with every generation, even if new tales are also made.”

“That seems… sad,” said Dafiro.

“It’s neither sad nor happy,” said Chief Kyzen. “It just is. But the scholars of Dara reacted much as you did, and some of them offered to help us recover our old stories as written down in your ancient books. The Ano, while they fought the natives of these islands, also recorded their traditions.”

“It’s a marvelous consequence of the Ano logograms that they would allow your people to recover your past through their frozen voices,” said Dafiro. He had a common man’s almost mystical reverence for the logograms, though he was no great scholar, and Zomi Kidosu’s proposal years ago to abolish their use in the Imperial examinations had never quite sat right with him.

“Indeed it is. The young Adüans and Dara scholars pored through your archives and learned many traditions that had been forgotten even by our elders. For example”—he pointed to a statue of a person with an oversized head and three cowrie shells embedded in the face—“I learned about the tale of the Hero-with-Three-Eyes who dived to the bottom of the sea to demand a truce between mankind and toothed whales by holding the king of the whales underwater until he capitulated.”

Dafiro examined the statue with admiration, thinking wistfully that this was a tale that his brother would have enjoyed.

Chief Kyzen went on, “During this process, the young Adüans became interested in the religious traditions of their Dara hosts as well. They scanned the ancient tomes, consulted learned priests and monks, and beseeched folk witches and mediums for obscure oral knowledge. The early days of the Ano are lost in the mists of history, and there are many conflicting myths and stories purporting to speak of ancient religion. Many scholars of Dara told us that finding the truth about the past was an impossible task.”

“I had no idea it was so complicated,” said Dafiro.

“By comparing our stories—both those we remember and those we learned from your books—with the stories of the gods of Dara in Ano records, we made an astounding discovery.”

Chief Kyzen took another puff on his pipe, enjoying the impatient look on Dafiro’s face. Then he relented and continued his account.

“The early Ano sagas had several different versions of the creation myth, as well as deeds by deities with names that did not appear in later accounts. The creation myth that eventually came to dominate is the one you know well: the parting of Thasoluo from Daraméa, the creation of the Islands from her tears, and the simultaneous birth of the young gods of Dara.”

Dafiro nodded, uncertain what this meant.

“This is a myth remarkably similar to our own creation story, though differing in several important respects. Our storytellers speak of the creation of the race of man from Daraméa’s blood as she gave birth to the gods, a detail absent from the Ano accounts; and in our stories, Tazu was a goddess, not a god who sometimes took on the feminine aspect.”

“Which version do you think is the truth?”

“That is not something mere mortals can ever find out. But I have a theory as to what happened: When the Ano first came to these shores, they brought with them their own gods, different from those you now know as the gods of Dara, who were worshipped by the natives—our ancestors.”

“Their own gods!” Dafiro was so shocked that he didn’t know what to think.

“Yes, the gods of the Ano had their own names, their own spheres of power, and their own stories. Some of these were recorded in the earliest sagas, but they became neglected in later ages.

“As the Ano fought and mingled with the natives, they learned about our gods and myths, and over time, came to identify their gods with ours. For example, their god of fire was melded to our goddess of the volcanoes; our trickster goddess was seen as an echo of their trickster god; our healing god was reinterpreted as their kind shepherd. Elements of the Ano homeland were transplanted onto our gods, and they prayed to them as though they were still praying to the gods of home.”

As the chief explained, he pointed out various statues for Dafiro’s attention: a whalebone statue of a goddess whose ample breasts were carved from coral and shaped like Mount Rapa and Mount Kana; a wood carving of a goddess who had the lower body of a shark; a figurine made from the pure white horn of a cruben whose expression of serene mercy was universally understood.

“Why would they do this?” asked Dafiro.

“Who knows? But I suspect that the gods are rooted to places they consider home, and the Ano gods were brought here in name only, not in substance. The Ano needed the presence of divinity in their lives, and the easiest solution was to pray to gods who would answer—our gods—while giving them familiar clothing and habits and viewing them as reflections of the deities they already knew.”

“And the gods of Dara agreed to this?”

“The gods are mysteries, Dafiro Miro. We understand not their thoughts or desires. But I imagine being a god is not terribly different from being a king where power is concerned; both prefer the strong as followers and worshippers. If the Ano were more powerful than our ancestors, would it not make sense for the gods to favor them over us? Just as the gods direct our affairs, perhaps the mortal world also influences the celestial realm.

“What we do know is that elaborate temples to the gods of Dara were built by the conquerors, and that in these temples the gods were depicted to resemble the Ano rather than the natives of these islands. Instead of praying to statues, my ancestors shifted to praying to the sky and the sea, and as tales attached to the old statues were forgotten, our gods became more abstract, less dependent on specific representation.

“Besides taking away our land, your ancestors also took away our gods.”

Dafiro was silent, too astonished by this revelation. As the statues on these shelves had been literally taken away from Chief Kyzen’s people by raiders from Dara, the chief was not merely speaking metaphorically.

“So, to answer your question: Do we worship the same gods? The answer is both yes and no, because the gods have been changed by the coming of the Ano. The people of Dara, though descended from the Ano as well as the natives, see themselves as the inheritors of the Ano legacy and worship in the same manner. We, on the other hand, still honor the gods of Dara and their parents, the World Father and the Source-of-All-Waters, but we know that they favor the men of Dara more than us, the remnants of a defeated people.

“My account should perhaps also serve as a warning to you and yours, for just as the gods once favored the men of Dara, they may well shift their love to another people. That the gods haven’t spoken their will is… interesting.”

Dafiro vowed to bring Chief Kyzen’s story to more learned minds than his own. Perhaps they would make sense of it. He brought the conversation back to the topic he had come to discuss.

“Let the gods do as they will. I come now to ask for your intercession on our behalf with the crubens.”

Chief Kyzen’s face turned somber. “The matter is not as simple as you think. The sovereigns of the sea keep their own counsel. Though the Adüans can speak to them, all we can do is plead, not command.

“The sea is vast and eternal, but men are mortal and puny. Keeping that in mind, we have always restricted our pleas to times of absolutely necessity, such as when our very lives are threatened. Centuries ago, when the kings of Cocru invaded our shores, we pled our case to the crubens, and they intervened to destroy the Cocru armada at sea. For months afterward, wreckage from those warships washed ashore.”

“I had always heard that it was a divine storm that had thwarted the plans of the Cocru kings,” said Dafiro.

“And we were happy not to contradict that story, for divine intervention has a deterrent effect unachievable by other means. But the crubens, though powerful beyond our comprehension, are not gods.”

“The crubens must favor Tan Adü more than the men of Dara.”

“For a time, we thought so as well. When Mapidéré, in his turn, launched fleets against our shores, we went to the sea to speak to the crubens again. But this time, they did nothing. Because we had been counting on their aid, we were not as prepared as we should have been, and many warriors lost their lives as we had to scramble for a plan and fight for every inch of soil until the All-Chief decided that he preferred to focus his energy elsewhere than on the poor savages of Tan Adü.”

“Why did the crubens not help you that time?”

“That is a question that we have never figured out. Some of the elders believe that in our arrogance, as we took for granted the favor of the crubens, we lost our virtue. Others believe that the crubens had their own vision for the affairs of men, and wanted to test us at our moment of need.”

“What do you believe, Chief Kyzen?”

Kyzen shook his head. “It is always possible to come up with some reasonable-sounding explanation after the fact, but much of life is capricious and governed by forces beyond our understanding. The secret to happiness is to plan for the worst but be ready to seize opportunities when they flash briefly like shooting stars in the night sky.

“Leaders who believe everything can be predicted and directed are most at risk of greatly harming those who depend on them, and I agreed to ask the crubens on behalf of Kuni Garu only when I was certain that he was a man who believed that all life was but an experiment.”

Dafiro pondered this. “The marshal has always planned to lose, but she is also sparing no effort at surveying the heavens for shooting stars.”

Kyzen laughed. “Then let us scan the sky together.”

In the predawn darkness, the great whalebone trumpet carried the voice of the Adüan chief far into the sea. As Dafiro listened to the song, he was reminded of another dawn two decades ago, when he had heard the sound of the whale-trumpet for the first time. Back then, he had been a young man in search of novelty and thrills, and hoping only for a good story to share with his brother.

At the thought of his brother, he silently said a prayer. If Rat could see him from the other shore of the River-on-Which-Nothing-Floats, perhaps he would enjoy the sight of the crubens as well.

Kyzen’s trumpet song went on for a long time. As Dafiro listened to the rise and fall of the instrument’s somber tone, he seemed to see a vision of the Lyucu sweeping across the Islands of Dara like a tsunami, wiping away all that was beautiful and kind, the thin layer of civilization clinging to the hard, volcanic rocks like limpets sporting fragile, varicolored shells. He saw burning fields, villages, and cities, heard the screams of dying men and women, smelled the charred flesh of the thousands slaughtered, tasted the tang of blood suffusing the air. He shuddered and realized that his face was wet.

And then, just as the sun peeked over the eastern horizon and turned the sea into liquid gold, the great crubens arrived.

They breached the sea miles away, dark silhouettes arcing gracefully through the air like shadow puppets before crashing back into the sparkling water. Though they were the most massive creatures in the world, each many times greater than an Imperial warship, they moved as effortlessly as though they were made of shadows and air.

The whalebone trumpet stopped. The story had been told and the request given. Now it was just a matter of waiting for the sovereigns of the sea to respond.

The crubens approached the canoes, moving impossibly fast. The sound of their massive fluked tails slapping against the water grew like rumbling thunder.

If the crubens agreed to help the people of Dara, they would be able to destroy the city-ships of the Lyucu with no effort. And then, who knew? Would the garinafins, of the element of fire, dare to fight against the lords of the element of water? Perhaps Dara troops would be able to ride to Rui and Dasu on the backs of the crubens and conquer the Lyucu as they shivered before such a display of overwhelming power.

The crubens were so close now that the canoes rocked over the waves caused by their motion. Dafiro held on to the sides of his canoe with both hands, feeling nauseous.

A great set of flukes slapped down, and the resulting wave, like a curtain of water, hung suspended over the boat for a second, transforming everything seen through it into a watercolor painting, before crashing down and drenching everyone in the canoe. Dafiro held his breath and squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that when he opened them again he would see the crubens stopped by the canoes like living islands, waiting for the men of Dara to ride again.

But the crubens swam past the canoe, careless of their existence. The pod of crubens diminished in the distance; the waves subsided; the noises of their flukes striking the water faded and disappeared. Soon, the ocean returned to a featureless expanse, and the golden sheen of the rising sun had faded into a more mundane bright green.

“I’m sorry,” said Chief Kyzen.

This time, the men of Dara were on their own.

Before he left Tan Adü, Dafiro went to visit his old friend Huluwen, who had given him his weapon, the war club named Biter.

The two embraced. They were no longer young, but the bond between them felt as fresh as though they had said good-bye to each other only yesterday.

Huluwen was married and had several sons and daughters, and the joyous sounds of a close-knit family made Dafiro envious for a moment. He had devoted his life to the service of the Imperial household, and never started a family. Funny. He had once lectured his young brother on the importance of taking care of oneself rather than devoting one’s life to the service of the great lords, but somehow, after his brother’s death, he had lived according to the precepts of honor and duty. Perhaps it was a way to honor the memory of his brother, who always had a more idealistic view of loyalty.

Huluwen was not skilled in the vernacular of Dara, and so the two communicated by gestures and grunts, and the drawing of crude pictures on the ground. To entertain the children, Huluwen invited their guest to tell a story.

What story should I tell? He did not want to speak of the Lyucu again. There was enough despair in the world.

Slowly, with a combination of pictures and mimed gestures, Dafiro told the story of Ratho’s death at the Hegemon’s last stand. This was a story that seemed to haunt every moment of his life, and by the end, he was in tears.

The children were silent, clearly moved by the nobility of the moment. Huluwen came up to him and said, in halting Dara speech, “All men are brothers.”

Dafiro nodded and said nothing. Sometimes words got in the way of feelings.

Because Dafiro’s clothes were wet from the morning ride to speak with the crubens, Huluwen took him outside his hut, where the family would build a bonfire so that they could dry Dafiro’s clothes and prepare roasted taro and grilled fish for lunch.

Dafiro sipped sweet arrack and watched with interest as Huluwen’s daughter, Hulumara, tried to start a fire.

Instead of going to one of the nearby huts to get a piece of burning branch, Hulumara took out a section of bamboo with one sealed end and greased the inside with a bit of fish oil. Then she took up a whale’s tooth that had been filed into a cylinder and tested it to see that it would fit inside the bamboo cup snugly while sliding smoothly. Finally, she placed a bit of fluffy dried moss into a hole drilled into the tip of the whale tooth, inserted the tooth halfway into the bamboo cup, and then slammed it home the rest of the way with a hard slap on the back of the tooth.

Quickly, Hulumara pulled the tooth out, and blew at the hole in the tip. The moss began to smoke and soon, a tiny flame appeared. Hulumara cupped it and set it down into the bed of kindling at the foot of the bonfire, and her siblings helped her build up the fire and begin cooking.

“How—” Dafiro was stunned. Zomi Kidosu had asked everyone to seek out novel ways of making fire, and this definitely qualified. He asked to see the strange bamboo-and-whale-tooth contraption, which he decided to call a fire tube. There was no metal or flint anywhere on either of the pieces, and he realized that since the cylindrical tooth formed a tight seal against the walls of the bamboo tube, as the tooth was slammed down, air would be trapped at the bottom of the bamboo tube and become compressed. Was that how fire started? Simply by compressing air? The very idea seemed like magic.

The meal was delicious and the drink satisfying. Dafiro gave Huluwen a set of swords made by the master smiths of old Rima—the sword he had exchanged for Biter decades ago was a rather poor piece of work, and he had always thought he had gotten the far better end of the deal. Seeing Dafiro paying so much attention to the fire tube, Huluwen presented it to him as a gift, though he wasn’t sure why his friend liked such a common object so much.

The two men gripped arms as they said their good-byes. Both knew that it was likely that they would never see each other again.

Be ready to seize opportunities when they flash briefly like shooting stars in the sky.

Dafiro secured the fire tube under his clothing, making sure it would not be lost on his return journey to Dara.

^{CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE} THE SILKMOTIC FORCE

Lady Risana and Prince Phyro’s travels around Dara took them to fog-shrouded Boama, where they were scheduled to give their performance three times to allow everyone from the surrounding countryside a chance to take in the show.

Phyro had never gotten over his childish delight in street performers of all stripes. Since there was a bit of downtime before the evening show, Phyro decided to take advantage of what the metropolis had to offer by dressing as a commoner and strolling through the street markets. Boama, being quite distant from Pan, offered fresh acts that he didn’t encounter in the capital.

“I’m going to send you to see Rufizo himself!” someone shouted from the middle of a crowd. “This is witchcraft!”

Phyro pushed his way through the crowd, elbowing people aside, earning him annoyed glances and not a few curses. He had gained bulk as he grew older, and he wasn’t shy about wanting a good view of something exciting.

In the middle of the crowd was a street performer arguing and fighting with a burly man who had a bushy beard.

“Accusations of witchcraft should not be thrown around so lightly, good sir!” said the performer. He looked to be in his fifties, with a thin, slender build that reminded Phyro of a sandpiper. Besides a sharp chin and a hooked nose, he added to the birdlike impression with a pair of bright and lively eyes and fluttering hands that tried to shield his face from the spittle of his angry customer.

“I call it like I see it,” said the burly man, whose rough accent and simple clothes showed that he was from the countryside. He grabbed the performer by the lapels of his robe, shook him until the man’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and his tongue stuck out, and then tossed him to the ground.

The performer rolled a few times along the ground, and managed to climb onto his knees and hands only after lying, stunned, on the ground for a while. His indigo robe was full of colorful patches embroidered with the symbols of the gods of Dara—perhaps the intent had been to endow him with a sense of cosmopolitan mystery, of being in tune with the gods—but as it was now muddy, wrinkled, and torn in more than a few places, the effect more closely resembled an itinerant monk who couldn’t make up his mind as to which god to follow.

“Rufizo save me! Civilized men use words, not fists!”

“You gave my wife such a fright! She’s expecting, you idiot!”

The performer’s features scrunched into a pleading, ingratiating smile. “Good master, I warned her ahead of time that she wouldn’t be able to hold on to the jar, but you insisted—”

“You never mentioned that your jar would bite!” the burly man roared, and again grabbed the performer and tossed him to the ground.

The crowd laughed and urged the burly man on. This was far more entertaining than whatever act had been going on earlier.

Phyro looked over to the side and saw a woman sitting on the ground, her face pale and still trying to catch her breath. Next to her was a low table on which sat a porcelain jar on its side, a pool of water around it. This was evidently the source of the dispute.

The prince shoved more people out of the way and squatted down next to the woman. “Mistress, are you all right?”

The woman nodded, but she was clearly still shaken by her experience.

“What happened?”

“He”—she pointed to the performer, who was being tossed to the ground a third time as the crowd jeered and cheered—“offered to double anyone’s money if they could hold on to the jar with one hand while touching the stopper at the top with the other hand and not drop it.”

Phyro looked at the porcelain jar again. He saw that the outside of the jar was covered by a thin layer of silver that stopped halfway up the side. There was a cork stopper next to it, through the center of which poked a metal pin ending in a jujube-sized knob. From the bottom of the stopper dangled a chain, which was apparently supposed to rest on the inner surface of the jar when the stopper was in place.

“Since it seemed like easy money,” the woman continued, “my husband wanted to try it. But as soon as he took a look at my husband, he offered to quadruple our money if I held the jar instead.”

Phyro chuckled inside. From years of observing the street performers at work, he recognized the trick. By offering more of a payoff to her, the performer ensured that the couple would be tempted to have the wife try first. And after she failed, the husband would want to also pay, thinking that she failed only because of her lack of strength or fortitude. This guaranteed the performer more money.

“I held the jar in one hand while the man chanted some nonsensical song and danced around me, claiming to be charging the jar with ‘silkmotic force.’ Then he told me to grasp the knob with the other hand. I grabbed it and held on with all my strength, thinking that he was going to try to surprise me with some trick to make me let go, but instead, the jar itself bit me, my arms went numb, and I almost passed out!”

“Witchcraft! Witchcraft!” shouted the crowd as the burly man continued to visit his displeasure on the poor performer.

“What is going on here?” a voice asked outside the crowd. Phyro glanced up and saw the flag of the Boama constables. With the threat of a Lyucu invasion imminent, all the coastal cities of Dara were jumpy, and the constables were extra vigilant, keeping an eye out for troublemakers and potential Lyucu spies.

“Listen,” Phyro whispered to the woman, his voice urgent. “You don’t want the constables involved. With Consort Risana and Prince Phyro in town, they’re going to treat every disturbance of the peace like a major crime. Even if your husband isn’t at fault, they’ll just throw all of you in prison until things calm down. Best if you just make peace with him and go on your way. Besides, you should go see the priests in the Temple of Rufizo as soon as possible to make sure the baby is fine after the jar bit you.”

The woman, clearly frightened by the thought of being tossed in prison, nodded gratefully at Phyro. She got up, pulled her husband away from the performer, and whispered urgently in his ear.

By the time the constables shoved through the crowd, the performer and the burly man were both standing facing each other, and each was attempting to brush the mud and dirt off the clothes of the other.

“What happened here? Why were you fighting?” asked the captain of the constables.

“A minor misunderstanding,” said the performer. He dipped a corner of his robe into the pool of spilled water on the table and tried to discreetly wipe away the blood oozing from a wound in one of his ears. “My act involves audience participation, and this master got a little too into it.”

The constable looked suspiciously at the burly man.

“Er… yes. I got a bit carried away,” the man said sheepishly.

“It was just a part of the act,” said the performer.

“My husband and I are from outside the city,” said the woman. “We just haven’t seen such amazing magic tricks before. But everything is fine now.”

The constable captain looked from one to the other—a third-rate street magician and a country bumpkin—and decided it wasn’t worth the trouble of trying to understand what really had happened here.

“Don’t let me catch you making a scene again,” the captain lectured them. The couple and the performer nodded like chickens pecking for rice in the dirt. “And the rest of you”—the captain turned to the crowd—“don’t loiter about. There’s nothing to see here. Go on. Come on. Go! Shoo!”

The crowd reluctantly dispersed. The constables went back to their patrols, and the couple headed for the Temple of Rufizo.

“Thank you, young master,” said the street performer. “If it weren’t for you, that fool would have broken my nose, my arms, and who knows what else!”

“Not to mention that the constables would have confiscated your equipment,” said a smiling Phyro. “And you’d have to pay a hefty bribe to get it back.”

“Very true,” said the smiling performer. “I see that the young master is wise to the ways of the world.”

“I have always been interested in street magic.”

The performer eyed him suspiciously.

Phyro laughed. “No, no. I’m no performer. I’m more of a… patron of the arts! I’m far more interested in promoting interesting acts than going on the stage myself.”

The performer’s eyes narrowed as he tried to interpret the meaning of his words. “Perhaps such patronage can be lucrative for both parties?” he suggested tentatively.

Phyro punched him playfully in the shoulder. “Exactly! You have my meaning right. I find good acts and invest to bring them a better quality of audience, and the artists share the profits with me.”

“You have piqued my interest,” said the performer.

“Let me take care of a few business matters first, but later tonight, how about I buy your dinner, and you tell me more about your act?”

Phyro took the street magician, whose name was Miza Crun, to one of the best restaurants in Boama. After a full meal of crisp-fried carp with apple slices and wild-monkeyberry-flavored beef stew—interrupted by a cup of sweet ice in between to cleanse the palate—Miza Crun let out a satisfied burp and shared some of his secrets with his benefactor. He took out the machines from the large baskets he carried at the ends of a shoulder pole and laid them out on the table in the private suite Phyro had reserved at the restaurant.

Centuries ago, the priests of Rufizo were the first to discover that after rubbing a porcelain or glass dish with silk, the vessels attracted dust or bits of paper. Theorizing that some minute particles in the silk—or “silk motes”—had been rubbed onto the vessels (or vice versa), the priests described the attractive force as the silkmotic force.

At first, the silkmotic force was treated as a mysterious manifestation of Rufizo’s universal love for humankind. Just as the lodestone’s attraction for metal symbolized Fithowéo’s love of warfare and weaponry, the silkmotic force reflected Rufizo’s gentler, kinder aspect.

But over time, as the secret left the temples, it was the street magicians of Faça who began to experiment with and develop this new source of crowd-pleasing effects. They fashioned elaborate apparatuses and demonstrations for the entertainment of crowds, who oohed and aahed over the apparently supernatural motions.

“Come, come! Come see the wonders of paper dancers coming to life!” Miza said, and beckoned Phyro closer to one of his devices.

It was a foot-long stage made of sandalwood, upon which lay tiny dancers cut from colorful paper and decorated with logograms for good luck and prosperity. They reminded Phyro of the shadow puppets of folk operas. A two-tined fork stood at each end of the stage, supporting a glass rod over the dancers. Everything looked exquisitely made and ancient—some of the intricate carvings in the sides of the stage were worn down from decades or perhaps even centuries of handling, and the edges of the paper dancers showed the yellow tint of age.

Miza took out a silk handkerchief and rubbed it vigorously over the glass rod, and then put the handkerchief away.

As though animated with a magical spell, the tiny dancers stood up on the stage. They quivered on their feet, as though pulled up by invisible strings.

“The silkmotic charge on the glass rod pulls them up, but they’re each weighed down at the feet with a bead of polished shell,” explained Miza.

Miza then pumped a small bellows connected to the side of the stage with his left hand and turned a crank with his right. The dancers began to sway, flutter, bow, turn, twist, twirl…

“This is the veil dance, isn’t it?” said an awed Phyro. “My father said he had seen it as a child.”

“Yes,” said Miza. “In old Faça, this was a dance reserved for the king and his most honored guests, and ordinary men and women had to make do with descriptions or a model like this one. A grid of small holes in the floor of the stage allows the wind from the bellows to propel the dancers, while this crank is connected to a paper tape punched with a pattern of holes to control the air currents, and thus, the motion of the dancers.”

“That’s ingenious!”

Miza smiled. “This is one of the oldest and simplest of the silkmotic machines. The particular specimen here was made by my teacher’s teacher, and it’s a mere parlor trick compared to later inventions. After Mapidéré made the veil dancers a public spectacle on his tours, this contraption was no longer a crowd-pleaser. I kept it only out of nostalgia.”

“I can see how such a display, charming though it is, would not impress a jaded crowd who had feasted on the real thing,” said Phyro. Walking slowly next to the table, he examined each of Miza’s other machines. “I understand the silkmotic force began as a part of the mysteries of the worship of Rufizo?”

The wistful look on Miza’s face disappeared in a flash, and he gave Phyro a sly smile. “Temple magic, like street magic, is a matter of staging. Let me show you.”

He went back to his basket and found two long silk ropes. Walking to the middle of the suite, he gazed up at the beams. “This will do. Would you give me a boost?”

Phyro squatted and locked his hands together. Miza stepped onto his hands and held on to Phyro’s shoulder for balance. Phyro slowly stood up, lifting Miza toward the ceiling.

“You’re strong,” commented Miza. “Let me guess: You are from a military family?”

“Something like that,” said Phyro.

Miza didn’t press. He tied the silk ropes to the beam, forming two slings that hung down. He jumped off from Phyro’s hands. “All right, now please take off your shoes and lie facedown in these slings. Make sure you’re comfortable.”

Phyro complied. The two silk slings held him at his thighs and chest, distributing his weight evenly so that he was suspended about a foot or so from the ground. He stretched out his hands in front of him. “This feels like flying. Maybe this was how the Hegemon felt suspended from a battle kite.”

Miza laughed and then took some of the paper dancers and dropped them on the ground in front of Phyro about a foot or so away from the tips of his outstretched fingers.

“Relax. I’m now going to call upon the power of Rufizo and give you the ability to command these paper men.”

Miza picked up the glass rod from the paper dancers’ stage and rubbed it vigorously with his silk handkerchief. Then he brought the rod close to Phyro’s naked soles. “Go ahead, command the paper dancers.”

Unsure what to do, Phyro stretched out his hands toward the paper dancers and waved them about. Amazingly, the paper men stood up and swayed in place as his hands moved before them.

“Imagine if we were doing this in a darkened temple sanctuary using thin ropes that cannot be seen. Imagine also some incense and smoke swirling about you so that you appear to be shrouded in mystery. Imagine the reaction of the crowd as you appear to command sparkling birds and butterflies made of thin foil to flutter about you without touching them.”

Phyro nodded with a grin on his face. “That would indeed be a far more impressive demonstration. I assume that the silkmotically charged rod also charged me, thus allowing my fingers to attract the paper dancers?”

“Exactly. The silkmotic force can flow through the human body quite effectively. A better way to channel and store the silkmotic charge would involve a suspended bar of metal, which we in the trade call a prime reservoir.”

Phyro climbed off the sling. “Show me.”

Miza brought out a long iron rod, which terminated in a rounded knob at either end, and suspended it in the sling. “Charging such a prime reservoir is tedious with a glass rod; so we use a silkmotic generator.”

He moved another of the machines over to near one end of the rod. It consisted of a wooden stand on which a glass globe was mounted in such a way that it was free to revolve about an axle. Miza attached a small metal chain to one of the knobs at the end of the suspended iron bar and dangled the other end of the chain onto the globe. Then he handed a folded bundle of silk to Phyro and started to rotate a crank to the side, making the globe spin.

“Hold the silk against the glass, please,” he said.

Phyro did so. The metal chain clanked gently against the spinning surface of the globe, sounding like rain striking a tiled roof.

“This is a much more efficient way of building up the silkmotic force on the glass globe and transferring it to the prime reservoir.”

After he judged the prime reservoir to be sufficiently charged, Miza stopped the spinning globe. He went about the suite, extinguishing lamps and closing up the shutters on the windows. The interior of the suite was now quite dark.

“Try moving a hand close to the prime reservoir, slowly,” he said.

Phyro cautiously moved his hand closer to the metal bar. Just as his fingers were about to touch it, a spark arced across the gap like a miniature lightning, illuminating the room momentarily.

“Aw!”

Phyro jumped and waved his hand violently. He looked down at it to be sure it was uninjured. “It bit me!”

Miza laughed. “That’s what happens when an object filled with silkmotic force is discharged, which means that the silk motes spill out into another object that moves close to it. Only some objects will cause the discharge, though—we call them channeling material—metals and people being the best. Other things like silk or glass—we call them damming material—do not seem to allow the motes to move about freely, which is why we support the prime reservoir with a glass stand or suspend it from silk ropes.”

Phyro made a mental note of the detail and continued to play the role of the curious but idle young man of wealth. “Fascinating. Is silk the only source for this kind of force?”

“Not at all,” said Miza. “Substantially the same effects may be achieved by rubbing amber with fur, or leather against glass—indeed, the combinations almost seem infinite.”

“And are the motes from leather and fur different from the motes from silk? Er, in other words, is there a leathermotic force and a furmotic force?” He was thinking of the latest letter from Théra, which described the differences between the lift gas that powered the Imperial airships and the lift gas that powered the garinafins. “Please excuse my ignorance, but the topic is of great interest.”

Miza smiled and nodded. The interest from Phyro was clearly exciting to him—being able to share his learning with someone who was not going to compete with him as a street magician clearly engaged his professorial mode. “This was a topic long debated among practitioners of the art. After much research, I am of the opinion that all materials we’ve investigated so far generate the same force, and out of respect for tradition, we call it the silkmotic force, regardless of the source.

“However, the force does seem to come in two varieties, which may correspond to an excess of silk motes and an absence of them. We denote them the Rapa and Kana varieties after the twin goddesses, and label one type white and the other red. All you need to know is that if two objects are charged with the same variety of silkmotic force, they repel each other, but if they are charged with different varieties, they attract each other.”

“Have you found any other uses for the silkmotic force besides magic tricks?”

Miza nodded proudly. “Of course! A good street performer needs variety. The best part of my show is when I cure people with the silkmotic force.”

“Cure people?”

“You’ve already experienced what it’s like to be shocked by the silkmotic force on discharge,” said Miza. “But it’s also possible to use your body as a prime reservoir and fill it with the silkmotic force via a generator, in which case you’ll experience a tingling sensation. The silkmotic force is particularly effective against conditions like gout, epilepsy, and acute as well as chronic pains. It’s a real crowd-pleaser when I play doctor.”

Phyro wasn’t sure just how seriously to take this part of Miza’s explanation. Healing was a difficult art, and many remedies seemed to him mere superstition or just-so stories. He preferred to focus on phenomena that could be more easily verified.

Pointing to the porcelain jar that was at the heart of the dispute earlier in the market, Phyro asked, “Can you show me how this works?”

“Ah, you’ve come to the most interesting of my apparatuses. It’s called an Ogé jar, after those islets in the east. And I have never seen any other magician with such a device.”

That was apparently as much as Miza was willing to say. Clearly he considered the trade secret of great value.

Phyro didn’t press. Instead, he excused himself for a moment, claiming to need to use the toilet. Instead, he went into the suite downstairs from his and knocked on the door.

The door opened, revealing Consort Risana, the smokecrafter.

“Ma, did you hear everything?” whispered Phyro.

Risana nodded. She had poked a speaking trumpet connected to a tube—one of Rin Coda’s inventions—through the ceiling to rest against a crack in the floor of the suite above. With the other end, she had been keeping tabs on the discussion between Phyro and Miza.

“You really think this man has useful information?” asked Risana.

“Absolutely,” said Phyro. “I’m not sure what do to with it exactly yet, but I have a hunch that Théra will figure it out.”

“You are gambling this will turn out to be more than mere tricks to fool the gullible?”

“It’s a calculated risk,” said Phyro. Then he grinned. “There should be a little bit of Tazu in everyone’s life.”

Risana smiled affectionately. “You always quote your father’s most outrageous lines.” But then the smile faded as her husband’s dangerous situation returned to her mind.

Phyro tried to steer the discussion back. “Useful or not, I still have to get the information first. Magicians tend to guard their secrets jealously, passing them on only to trusted apprentices. This is why I asked for your help.”

“Why not just tell him who you are? I’m sure he would tell you what you want to know if you convinced him it could help the emperor with the war effort against the Lyucu.”

Phyro shook his head like a rattle drum. “If we tell him who we are now, he would demand an outrageous sum for his knowledge. That’s the sort of man he is, or at least the sort of man he thinks he is. But he really wants to do something noble, something impressive that would make him proud. We just need to… help him.”

“I thought I was the one who was supposed to figure out what people really wanted,” said Risana, chuckling. “You really are your father’s son—I can’t tell if you’re suggesting this plot because you really think it’s the right thing to do, or because you just want to drive a better bargain.”

“Even patriots may be tempted by profit,” said Phyro. “It’s expensive to run an empire, and I’ve learned a few things these last few years.”

Phyro ordered a hot pot. The waiters came in and set up a small brazier, and then placed the clay pot on top. Plates of raw ingredients were left for the guests to cook to their own liking. Soon, the room was filled with the delicious scents of meats and vegetables cooking in rich broth.

“Let me have a taste,” said Phyro, and clumsily, he managed to shift the clay pot in such a way that some of the soup spilled onto the coals below. Smoke quickly filled the room.

Phyro slid the window open just a crack. “My apologies. I’m sure the smoke will dissipate soon enough.”

Miza coughed but nodded in assent.

Phyro watched Miza’s face, praying that his mother was working her own sort of magic in the suite below.

A different sort of smoke was now coming into the room from the crack in the floor, but Miza wasn’t paying attention as it blended into the smoke from the brazier.

Phyro watched as the smoke in the room took shape, solidified, and wrapped itself like a serpent around Miza.

“Tell me about the Ogé jars,” Phyro prompted.

“They store the silkmotic force,” said Miza.

Phyro saw that Miza’s eyes had a glazed look. His mother had succeeded.

Miza popped off the stopper and showed Phyro the inside of the jar: It was also lined with a layer of silver foil that stopped about halfway up the walls. “The first jars I made held seawater, but then I found that all I needed was some channeling material on the inside. For street performances I still fill it with seawater, for effect, but we don’t need to.”

Miza plugged the stopper back into the jar, making sure that the chain rested against the foil at the bottom. Then he spun the crank in the silkmotic generator again to charge up the prime reservoir. Finally, he held the jar in his hand and brought the knob at the top close to the prime reservoir, generating a loud zap and bright sparks.

“Notice how the silkmotic force from the prime reservoir flowed into the Ogé jar?” asked Miza. “Would you like to hold it? Just one hand on the bottom, please.”

Phyro gingerly accepted the jar, holding on to the foiled bottom with only one hand.

“Don’t worry,” said Miza. “The silkmotic force is stored in the porcelain—the dam between the two channeling surfaces on the outside and the inside. The jar is perfectly safe to handle, as long as you only touch the bottom.”

Phyro was hardly assured. The memory of the last shock from the prime reservoir was still fresh in his mind.

“Try grasping the knob on top, which is connected to the inner surface, with your other hand,” said Miza. “And try not to drop the jar.” He giggled.

Phyro gritted his teeth and grabbed the knob on top of the jar with his other hand. He yelped from the resulting shock and dropped the jar like a piece of hot coal. Miza, who had been prepared, deftly caught the dropped jar with one hand.

“Sometimes these jars can keep on discharging a few more times,” he said. “Handle with care.”

Phyro could feel a numbness in his hand where the jar had shocked him, and his chest felt tight, as though his heart didn’t have enough room to beat.

“I have to sit down,” he gasped, and sat on the ground.

“Breathe, friend, breathe,” said Miza. “No matter how prepared you are, the silkmotic force is so powerful that the jar will pry itself out of your hand. It’s as if you can no longer control the muscles in your fingers.”

Phyro finally caught his breath. “That’s incredible.”

Miza laughed. “So many interesting tricks can be designed around the Ogé jar. The problem with the prime reservoir and the silkmotic generator is that they’re too bulky and too hard to operate in a discreet manner. Anyone can intuit the flow of the silkmotic force, and though the sparks generated are pretty, the trick loses its effectiveness because the audience can see how it’s done. With these jars, however, I can charge them up ahead of time away from the crowd, and then bring them around with me. Because they look like ordinary jars, people don’t suspect that they can pack such a punch. And they can hold a charge for days.”

“Why are they called Ogé jars?” asked Phyro. “Did you invent them there?”

Miza hesitated. Now that the air in the room was clearing up a bit, he seemed to be becoming more inhibited as well. “I did get them in Ogé, but I can’t claim to be the inventor.”

“Oh?”

“I was in the Ogé islets during what was probably the lowest point in my life. None of my tricks were drawing much of an audience, and even in backward Ogé, where I thought the people would be less jaded than the inhabitants of the big cities, I wasn’t getting good tips. It got so bad that I had to sell a lot of my equipment just to stay fed, and I knew once I started down that path, my life as a magician was over.

“In despair, I went to a shrine for Rufizo, and prayed for help.

“I fell asleep and dreamed of a handsome young doctor who came to me and showed me the design of these novel jars. He explained that these silkmotic devices could be used to treat various diseases, but they could also be used to perform magic tricks. He said that I could use them to get rich, but that I had to promise to help the people of Dara when such knowledge was needed.

“After I woke up, I constructed an Ogé jar according to the instructions in the dream, and it worked! Ever since then, I’ve traveled around Faça as an itinerant doctor and performer. I never did find out how a magic trick could help the people of Dara besides giving them something interesting to think about.”

Phyro looked at him, hardly daring to believe his luck. Maybe the gods of Dara still cared. “I think your moment has arrived.”

The evening’s performance by Consort Risana and Prince Phyro was canceled.

For the rest of that evening, Prince Phyro continued to ask questions like a hungry student while Miza patiently explained the wonders of the Ogé jar: how the silkmotic forces flowing from its inner and outer surfaces were equal in strength but of opposite varieties; how connecting multiple jars together in series or parallel had a cumulative effect, resulting in either longer sparks or thicker sparks; how the size of the jar and the smoothness of the foil affected the storage capacity; how connecting two channeling rods from an Ogé jar to the legs of a dead frog made them kick and swim….

The next morning, Miza was on a messenger airship bound for Ginpen.

While Lady Risana and Prince Phyro continued to travel around the islands to rally the population, Empress Jia was faced with the challenge of assuring the jittery people that the House of Dandelion was still fully in control.

Swarms of locusts appeared in the fields of Géfica, near the Imperial capital. The winged insects, forming a dense, living cloud that hovered near the ground and crawled over it, devoured everything in their path. The crops in the field were devastated, and the peasantry hid in the basements of their houses, not daring to emerge.

In the past, locust plagues were sometimes taken care of by fleets of Imperial airships spraying poisoned mist over the affected area, but now, with the airships out of commission, there seemed to be nothing that could be done except to wait for the plague to take its course.

The people of Dara whispered that this was a judgment of the gods, that it was a sign that the appearance of the Lyucu marked the end of the House of Dandelion.

“What do you want from me?” raged the empress at the statues of the gods in the Imperial shrine.

“Every sign can be interpreted in multiple ways,” said the prime minister. “The key is to come up with an interpretation you like.”

“If you want to have a second act,” said Soto, “this is the moment to seize the story.”

Empress Jia strode into the farm fields of Géfica herself. She took up a wooden winnowing shovel and swung it at the swarm. The insects attacked her, biting her arms, face, feet. She ignored the pain and continued to swat at the insects.

The ministers and generals rushed over to protect her, urging her to return to the safety of the carriage. The empress shoved them away.

“The people must eat, and I’ll kill these mindless creatures one by one if that’s what it takes,” said the empress. “Some have mistaken my reticence as weakness. If the gods truly want the House of Dandelion to end, then let them kill me today in this field. I’m not going back.”

Moved by the empress’s courage, the ministers and generals also picked up shovels and forks and went at the swarming insects. Soon, the peasants cowering in their houses emerged to fight the locusts alongside the great lords.

As they swatted at the endless living tide and bore the stinging pain, more than a few in the crowd thought they must have looked quite mad, but there was also a kind of frenzy in the joy of taking action—however symbolic—that made the crowd feel invincible.

Jia no longer felt she was engaging in political theater. She felt bonded to the subjects around her as though the people of Dara were a single organism. She was buoyed by waves formed from their courage and rage. It was glorious to struggle against heaven and earth as a woman, as the Empress of Dara, as a member of the proud race descended from the Ano and the natives of these islands.

Then, from all directions of the compass, flocks of birds approached: ravens, gulls, starlings, magpies, doves, even falcons…. Never had Dara seen such a large flock of birds of so many species flying in unison.

They fell upon the locusts and devoured them.

Gradually, the cloud of insects shrank and then disappeared. The birds, having satiated themselves, dispersed as suddenly as they had come.

Empress Jia fell to the ground, exhausted.

The miracle of the birds was deemed to be a sign from the gods, and made many once again believe in the strength of the House of Dandelion.

But Prime Minister Cogo Yelu carefully investigated the source of the locusts and wrote a secret report to the marshal.

Marshal Mazoti surveyed the tall stack of reports in front of her from the Imperial laboratories in Ginpen and all around Dara: the dissection of the garinafin carcasses, the feeding habits of cattle, the fire tube from Tan Adü, the mysterious devices powered by the silkmotic force, the habits and history of locus swarms….

Zomi Kidosu and Théra had compiled the reports into a set of suggestions, Cogo Yelu had applied his expertise in evaluating novel inventions, and Phyro, Than Carucono, and Puma Yemu had vetted them with their own field experience.

The marshal slammed her fist down on the table. She had a plan.

^{CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX} THE PRINCE’S FLIGHT

Pékyu Tenryo sent emissaries to persuade Prince Timu every day.

Many of the emissaries were cashima who had decided that it was easier to serve the pékyu than to labor in the fields under the lash of the Lyucu guards. The common people hated the collaborationists, which only pushed them closer to the Lyucu overlords. This was a part of Pékyu Tenryo’s plan to control the conquered population by playing the elites off against the common people, and some elites against others.

Today’s cashima was named Wira Pin, a renowned Incentivist from Dasu.

“Prince Timu, Grand Secretary Lügo Crupo once said that the wise ruler should flow with the currents of history rather than resist them.”

“And I am supposed to listen to the words of Lügo Crupo, the despised adviser of the tyrant Mapidéré?” said Timu, pausing to wipe away the sweat on his brow. “Besides, if he’s so wise, why did he resist the tides of history and cling to the Xana Empire?”

He went back to cutting and bundling the grass to produce hay for the garinafins. He didn’t want to fall behind the other peasants, all of whom had the same quota to fill.

“Surely the wise prince does not subscribe to the notion that victors have a monopoly on the truth,” said Wira. “Crupo served a lord who lost, but his wisdom is eternal.”

“Collaborators with the invaders are apparently blind to irony,” said Timu. “Since you are so observant of the tides, why don’t you enlighten me with this wisdom I’m ignorant of?”

“The Lyucu are the scourge of the gods,” said Wira Pin. “By next spring, a new fleet of Lyucu ships will come, bringing even more warriors and garinafins. Do you wish to see Dara laid waste? Do you wish to see more people die?”

“No one has to die if the Lyucu stop killing.”

“The Lyucu kill only because the House of Dandelion refuses to yield. The emperor places his own weal above that of the people, which is why he has not ordered Dara to surrender.”

Prince Timu stopped and glared at Wira. “The barbarians have only conquered two islands, and look at what they’ve done to the place. If we surrender, all of Dara will be reduced to this.” He swept his arm around at the devastation around him. Many of the peasants had been forced to cut down their still-green crops as feed for the garinafins. The harvest this fall was going to be a disaster.

“The present harshness is only a temporary measure in a time of war. If Pékyu Tenryo were lord of all of Dara, the people of Dara would be his flock and charge, and he would love them as a proper shepherd.”

“Because of self-interest?”

Wira nodded, an excited glint coming into his eye. “Precisely. I did not realize that the prince was so well versed in the Incentivist school of thinking.”

“Let me try to formulate your argument for you,” said Prince Timu. “The people of Dara will be valuable property to the pékyu, and he wouldn’t want to see his property damaged. In fact, he would need good caretakers to watch over his flock. The nobles and scholars, men of learning such as yourself, would need to be given some power to help him in this task.”

“Exactly!” Wira rubbed his hands. “It is so much easier to convince someone who can already see the light.”

“And I, as the prince to lead the surrender to the Lyucu and to give the pékyu legitimacy as the master of Dara, can expect a life of comfort and ease.”

“Your Highness has taken the words right out of my mouth.”

Prince Timu nodded. “But you see, neither my father nor I can do what you ask.”

“Why not? If you surrender, you will earn the eternal gratitude of the pékyu. Your family will be safe, and all this unpleasantness will be over.”

“Because though my father is the emperor, he has never forgotten that the people of Dara are not his family’s property.” Timu went back to work, struggling to catch up to the other peasants. “The capitulation you seek isn’t mine to give.”

No matter what Wira Pin said after that, the prince ignored him.

“He’s not going to budge,” said Tanvanaki, the pékyu’s daughter. “He’s as stubborn as his father.”

“Who would have thought that such a frail-looking weakling would have such a stout heart?” said Pékyu Tenryo, a measure of admiration seeping into his voice. “Both he and his father have exceeded my estimation.”

“We could try torturing one of them in front of the other,” suggested Tanvanaki. “That worked on Luan Zya.”

“I doubt that will work,” said the pékyu. “Remember how Kuni was willing to let his son die here and escape in his airship until I threatened to kill more people? He’s bound by what he sees as his duty to his people, not mere love of his son. The prince, on the other hand, craves his father’s approval so much that he will never surrender if he thinks his father will despise him for doing so.”

“But why must we try to convince either of them to surrender?” asked Tanvanaki. “Victory over Dara is a certainty! They have no way to challenge our superiority in the air. These islands had been united by a lord who understood the power of the air; they’ll fall to us in the same manner.”

“Have you forgotten what Luan Zya did?” The pékyu glared at her. “The garinafins can’t breed, and so many of the hatchlings and yearlings died on the crossing that we can barely control the adults we have. What if we lose more of the young ones and the adults become unruly?”

“A temporary setback. Our reinforcements should arrive in another year with a fresh supply of tolyusa and more garinafins. We might as well wait and conquer them by force.”

“You speak with the foolishness of youth,” said the pékyu. “Our warriors may be invincible on the battlefield, but they outnumber us by more than a hundredfold.”

“They are still sheep while we’re wolves.”

“Even wolves can’t kill all the sheep, and a desperate flock is capable of great feats. We already have enough trouble holding these two islands, and we must sleep at night with our clubs next to our beds. How will we ever hold all of Dara by force, even if we could conquer it? The people of Dara are wily and sly, Daughter. Do not underestimate them.”

“Then what good will it do to convince the prince or the emperor to surrender?”

“The craftiness of these islanders is also their fatal weakness. If there’s one quality that distinguishes them, it’s that they lack our discipline. If I toss my flag at a certain target, I can be sure that every Lyucu will attack it without fail. But the people of Dara are divided, cowardly, and selfish, and cannot strive toward the same goal for long. They will each make whatever choice hurts them the least and leave someone else to suffer the consequences. The deci-chief system, which has made them spy on each other for us, is proof of that. If we can give the nobles and ministers of the emperor an excuse to not fight us, they will seize it—indeed, they may help us guard our human flock like loyal garinafins.”

“You have a great deal of contempt for these savages, Father.”

“Not contempt—understanding. We want to enjoy the wealth offered by Dara, but the source of her wealth is her people. When you wish to guide a flock, you must identify those individuals whose actions the rest of the flock follow and control these leaders. Only in this manner can a few skilled herders control a vast flock.”

“The control animals you’ve picked out may be impossible to herd,” said Tanvanaki. “We’ve applied pressure in every way on the old man, and the young one will yield to neither threats nor enticements. He speaks of virtue at every turn and quotes long-winded chapters written by their sages back at our emissaries.”

“I’m about to give up,” conceded the pékyu. “At least they are useful as human shields until our reinforcements arrive.”

“Well,” said Tanvanaki as a cold smile shaped her face. “There is still one other way that we haven’t tried.”

“Hey, Prince of Dara!”

Timu stopped in the field, shielded his eyes against the sun, and gazed up at the new emissary sent by Pékyu Tenryo. He was surprised to see the pékyu’s daughter, the Lyucu princess. Tanvanaki was speaking to him from on top of Korva, her garinafin mount. The lumbering monster waddled by the side of the sorghum field like a cruben of the land, crushing crops and erasing field ridges with every taloned step and every swipe of her tail.

Oddly, Tanvanaki wasn’t dressed in the crude fur-and-leather outfit favored by the Lyucu. Instead, she was dressed like a woman of Dara: silk robe, cloth shoes with wooden soles, some of her hair pinned up in a bun with a jade hairpin.

With her fair, translucent skin glowing in the sun and her strong, exotic facial features haloed by blond tresses, Timu realized that the princess was very beautiful, though he had never applied that word to her in the past.

“Your Highness,” he said, and bowed.

“You may say ‘Your Highness’ with your lips,” said Tanvanaki. “But in your heart you’re calling me a barbarian, a savage, or something even worse.”

“Not at all,” said Timu. But he blushed.

Korva lowered her neck to the ground, and the princess stepped down the long living ramp and confidently to him, stopping only when she was about a foot away. She looked into his eyes—she was about Timu’s height and didn’t have to look up—and calmly said, “Liar.”

Timu backed up a step. “What… what are you doing?”

“Don’t move.” She took another step forward, and as Timu’s breath quickened with nervousness, she reached out and gently grabbed Timu by his chin, turning his face from side to side as she examined him. Timu’s face turned bright red and he jerked his chin away from her grasp.

He could still smell her hot breath, laced with the scent of unfamiliar spices.

Tanvanaki’s expression turned thoughtful as she looked up and down his body, muttering to herself the whole while, “Rather good figure… clear skin… a bit dark, but not unpleasant… looks like the field labor has done him some good…”

Timu felt extremely uncomfortable. This barbarian—Lyucu, Timu silently corrected himself—princess was unlike any of the young women of the court he had ever spoken to. Her boldness unsettled him, made him feel foolish.

Timu turned awkwardly away to resume his work.

“I’m not done with you yet,” Tanvanaki said imperiously. “I told you to stand still.”

“Your Highness should stop playing with me in this unbecoming manner,” said Timu through gritted teeth. “It is not honorable to humiliate and torture a prisoner.”

“Who says I’m torturing you?” said Tanvanaki. Then her lips curved into a mischievous smile. “But you would like me to play with you?”

Timu kept his lips squeezed together.

The princess took yet another step forward until her face was only inches away from his. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

Timu was stunned. This was not a question that he had ever heard a woman ask. It seemed so utterly improper; and yet, coming from her, it also seemed somehow fitting, like the fact that she wore a war club on her back, like the fact that she rode a garinafin into battle.

“I… uh… yes.” Timu’s face was now as scarlet as the crown of a rooster. He didn’t understand why this woman was able to fluster him so. She seemed to have no shame at all, which was strange but also… attractive.

“Good,” said the princess, nodding. “That I can tell is not a lie. Why do you men of Dara lie so much?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea of what the princess speaks.”

“I’ve been studying the people of Dara for a while, and you all think one thing, but say another. For example, when Zato Ruthi, your old teacher, came to meet us, he thought we were all barbarians barely better than animals, yet he pretended to treat us as honored guests. The wealthy and powerful among you want to have even more money and power, yet they say they’re trying to take care of the people.”

A look of anger flashed through Timu’s eyes. “I’m no hypocrite.”

“Aren’t you? Then why do you want to watch people starve?”

“I’m trying to prevent people from starving! You’ve turned all these fields into grazing pastures for your garinafins and long-haired cattle. What will the people of these islands eat this winter?”

“There will be plenty of milk and meat. The grain-based diet you prefer makes us feel bloated, anyway. We aren’t herbivores like you.”

“You don’t have enough long-haired cattle to feed everyone on Dasu and Rui! And my people can’t drink garinafin milk; it makes them sick.”

“Oh, so when you say ‘people of these islands’ you just mean your people, and you’d be happy to see my people starve. And you claim to be no hypocrite.”

“But you chose to come here. You could have stayed where you were.”

He closed his eyes, steeling himself for an angry slap or some other outrage.

But Tanvanaki looked away and her voice softened. “Did you know that until I came here, I had never seen so much green in the world?”

Timu opened his eyes and listened.

“The scrublands of my home are beautiful, but it is not an easy or forgiving land. The year I was born, a storm killed most of my father’s herd, and he had to go on raids against the Agon in deep winter to keep us alive. Hundreds died in the raids, and grandmothers and grandfathers walked out into the storm to die so that they would not burden the tribe, thus saving food for the babies. My mother died fighting the Agon, and to give me and my brother milk, one of the other mothers in the tribe smothered her sons with her own hands.”

Timu shuddered. The way Tanvanaki recounted this story with such calmness made it even more sickening.

“You think we’re barbaric,” said Tanvanaki, casting him a contemptuous look. “What do you know of barbarism, Prince of Dara? You were born in a land of plenty, and you’ve never known what it means to starve. You grew up in a land favored by the All-Father and Every-Mother, and you’ve had the leisure to develop complicated moral theories.

“Yet it is your land that has produced a tyrant like Mapidéré, who killed more men in a single battle than all the people my father has had to kill to keep his people alive. You speak of us as savages, yet your own savagery during the Chrysanthemum-Dandelion War exceeded anything we have done.”

Timu struggled to come up with an answer. This girl’s arguments were not like the arguments he was used to from the other emissaries of the pékyu—instead of quoting from the Ano sages, which he was skilled at countering, she… seemed to look at things in a new way.

“You can’t compare the flight of wild geese with the dance of freshwater carp. We live here. You’re invaders.”

“Really? You’ve always lived here? I thought your ancestors took this land away from the people who used to live here.”

“That was a long time ago! I—and everybody you’ve enslaved—was born here.”

“So if you’re born here, you get to decide who belongs to ‘the people’? If I give birth to a son or daughter here, the child gets to call you an invader?”

“No! It’s—it’s—”

“I keep on hearing this idea that somehow this land belongs to you, but I don’t understand it. How can land belong to anybody? The All-Father created the world, and we’re all just guests in it. We migrate across the land as the wild cattle herds do. The right to exist, to eat, the only right that matters, belongs to all.”

Timu heard in Tanvanaki’s arguments an echo of the parable of the veil told by Zomi Kidosu.

Before birth, all of us are mere potentials. We have no control over the moment of incarnation, when we might end up as the son of an emperor or the daughter of a peasant. The veil is lifted as we come into the world, and we find ourselves holding a box that determines our fates without regard to our merit. Yet all the great philosophers have always said that our souls are equal in weight in the eyes of the World Father, Thasoluo.

There was wisdom in the words of the Lyucu princess.

“Had you presented these arguments to my father in a reasonable manner, I’m certain we could have come up with some kind of compromise,” Timu said earnestly.

Tanvanaki laughed. “Really? You believe that your father would have vacated one of the islands and handed it to us? You believe he would not have extracted promises of obedience and service? You believe he would not have turned us into slaves, as Admiral Krita did? And even if he had such godlike compassion, do you think his nobles would have allowed him to give away their domain and influence? You are a fool if you believe any of that. I’m not steeped in the hypocrisy and corruption of your Dara, but even I know that life doesn’t work that way.”

Timu was mute. This woman had completely challenged the way he understood the world. He could no longer say that he was certain that the cause of Dara was just, a cause favored by the gods.

And so began a friendship—or courtship, Timu wasn’t sure which—that seemed completely impossible. Tanvanaki came to talk with Timu every day, lingering for hours sometimes as they walked about the fields, discussing their childhoods and arguing over the merits of their respective views of life.

Tanvanaki gave Timu a glimpse of the intricate culture of the Lyucu—the clever ways that the people of the scrublands had, over the centuries, learned to make use of every part of long-haired cattle and garinafin. The bones were turned into weapons and structural components of the tents; the fur and tough leather were made into clothing and shelter and shields; the sinews became threads and ropes; antlers, horns, and sinew mixed with scrub wood made possible the composite slingshots that provided great power despite their small size; the fat was rendered into candles and torches; the tendons and skins boiled into glue. No part of an animal was ever wasted.

As Tanvanaki told Timu the stories of her homeland and showed him the way that her people lived, adapting to the harshness of their environment, Timu began to see beneath the caricature of her people as only savage invaders.

Since Timu was a skilled musician himself, the music of the Lyucu moved him especially. Using garinafin-skin drums and bone xylophones, Tanvanaki evoked for him the sights and sounds of the vast scrublands: the pounding hooves of thousands of long-haired cattle migrating across the land, kept in line by the steady beat of garinafin wings and feet; the power and awe of sudden storms and flash floods that threatened to wipe away everything in a single deluge; a sky that seemed grander and more open than the sky of Dara, where the stars at night were not dimmed by the bright lights of teahouses and all-night gambling parlors; the long horizon that made you dizzy with the promise of endless, fresh grazing grounds.

As Tanvanaki sang to the accompaniment of her instruments, despite not understanding the lyrics, Timu could hear the powerful emotions of longing, love, resilience in the face of great adversity and danger, and boundless hope for the future. The Lyucu were like the windswept bushes that dotted the scrublands: tough, strong, willing to seize any opportunity—like a rare flood—to blossom and reinvigorate the landscape with the defiant colors of life.

The music was different from the refined and complex measures that Timu was used to on the nine-stringed silk zither or the coconut lute, but there was no doubt that the music was beautiful, no doubt that the Lyucu had a civilization, though it was as different from the civilization of Dara as a volcanic ash hare was different from a rainbow-tailed dyran.

Then, one day, Tanvanaki invited Timu to ride Korva with her.

Timu was terrified. Korva’s saddle towered far above him at the base of the garinafin’s neck like the crow’s nest on a ship. And the way the beast imperiously stared at him with her dark, pupilless eyes made his legs weak. He wasn’t even much of a horseman. The very idea of riding such a beast seemed beyond him.

“I thought your father once rode on a scaled whale, what you call a sovereign of the seas?”

“My father and I are not alike in many ways.”

“Thankfully so,” said Tanvanaki as she grinned at him. “Why do you think I’m taking you instead of him?”

Timu’s heart pounded. Somehow, what Tanvanaki had just said to him made him giddier than a thousand compliments from the severe Master Ruthi would have. He had always felt like a disappointment to his father, but now, this lovely young woman was telling him that it was fine to be different from his father, to be his own man.

Timu did not have much experience with women. Unlike Phyro, who enjoyed flirting with the servant girls at the palace and sometimes pretended to be just a wealthy young merchant as he snuck into the indigo houses in the company of Dafiro Miro—after both Jia and Risana had discreetly explained to Phyro the necessary precautions to take to avoid a scandal to the Imperial family—Timu had never even spoken with a young woman his own age without blushing.

The attention from Tanvanaki was to him an exotic song that he did not want to end.

Tanvanaki whistled at Korva, and the garinafin, like some towering pine that was being felled, squatted down and laid her graceful, long neck along the ground. Tanvanaki lightly stroked Korva’s face, and, placing one foot over the beast’s jaws, began to climb up. Using the garinafin’s eyelids and forehead as handholds and footholds, soon the young Lyucu princess was on top of the garinafin’s elephantine head, holding on to the antlers for balance.

She turned around and ordered, “Come on up.”

Hands sweating and legs trembling, Timu repeated Tanvanaki’s steps. When he set his left foot above the protruding nostrils of Korva, the garinafin snorted, and Timu almost lost his grip. He scrambled up Korva’s face the rest of the way, arms and legs flailing, and didn’t stop until his hands were locked around the antlers.

Tanvanaki was bent over with laughter while Timu hung on to the antlers for dear life, his face crimson.

Tanvanaki gently chided her mount in the language of the Lyucu, and Korva chuckled, a rumbling, thunderous noise.

The two then headed toward the saddle at the base of the garinafin’s neck as though they were walking along the top of a small mountain range. While Tanvanaki strode forward confidently, as fleet-footed as a mountain goat, Timu gingerly navigated the vertebrae in the neck of the garinafin, which stood out under the skin like weathered rock formations. Finally, the two made it to the leather-and-bone saddle.

Tanvanaki sat down, straddling her feet on each side of the neck and securing them in the stirrups. She patted the space behind her. “Sit here.”

Timu obeyed. Tanvanaki twisted around and showed him how to tuck his feet into the supporting rings dangling from the saddle. Then she said, “Put your arms around my waist and hug me tightly.”

The idea of taking such an intimate posture with Tanvanaki stunned Timu. He stammered, “I don’t… don’t think that’s necessary.”

“What, do I smell bad?” Tanvanaki lifted her left arm and sniffed. “I bathed just this morning with osmanthus flowers and cow milk.” She frowned. “Don’t tell me you still believe the nonsense rumors about my people. Sure, when we first came off the city-ships, we probably did smell terrible, but that was because we barely had enough fresh water for drinking and keeping the long-haired cattle and garinafins watered.”

“No, no!” Timu said, waving his hands in a gesture of denial. “You smell… wonderful.”

When Tanvanaki visited Timu, she almost always dressed in the fashion of a refined lady of Dara, with a tight bodice that emphasized her curves, loose folds of silk that lengthened her legs and arms, and hair worn in some elaborate style that far better suited women who spent their days in boudoirs rather than on the battlefield.

Timu loved the way she looked: The contrast between her exotic foreign features and the familiar feminine styles always brought heat to his cheeks and… elsewhere. And as time passed, she seemed to take on more aspects of Dara femininity, like this osmanthus flower bath.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Kon Fiji… um… wrote that it’s best for men and women not to touch each other unless they were married, lest impure thoughts come into their minds and keep them from the contemplation of virtue.”

Tanvanaki sighed in exasperation. “This Kon Fiji sounds like an idiot. Fine. Do as you like. But if you fall from the sky, I’m not sure Korva can dive fast enough to save you.”

She kicked Korva lightly at the base of the neck, and the beast responded by standing up and lifting her head until the neck was standing erect like a mast pine again. Timu immediately wrapped his arms around Tanvanaki’s waist.

“You don’t have to squeeze so hard!” gasped Tanvanaki. “Are you trying to crush me?”

Timu relaxed his hold slightly. The feeling of holding Tanvanaki between his arms and pressing his chest against her back was indescribably wonderful. He breathed in the osmanthus fragrance in her hair. He never wanted this moment to end.

Tanvanaki placed the speaking tube against the garinafin’s neck and spoke in Lyucu, “Let’s go, Korva. Keep it gentle and steady. Our guest isn’t used to flying without the aid of some mechanical monstrosity.”

Korva moaned her acknowledgment, and then, spreading her wings, she began to run. The pounding of the taloned feet against the ground was deafening, and the beating of the wings sounded like a typhoon. As the ground receded beneath him many times faster than the speediest horse he had ever ridden, Timu shut his eyes, not daring to look.

And then, just like that, the up-and-down rhythmic hammering of the garinafin’s gait disappeared with a slight jolt, and Timu felt a smooth, gradual increase in altitude. He continued to squeeze his eyes shut and laid his cheek against Tanvanaki’s back, enjoying the warmth of her body and the tickling sensation of her hair against his face.

“Look,” Tanvanaki said. Her voice was low, as though she was speaking to herself more than to him. “I never get tired of this sight. This truly is a land blessed by the All-Father, the Every-Mother, and all their children.”

Gingerly, Timu opened his eyes. The fields of Rui stretched out far beneath, as though they were gliding over a quilt patched together from colored cloth of many different patterns. Some of the squares were a dark, lush green, containing leafy vegetables and thick grass; others held red sorghum, ripening in late summer; still others were bare and tan, showing the cut grass and grain stalks drying to hay.

“Back home, the land is filled with swirls and curlicues, marking the patterns of the wind as they shape the bushes and scrubs in their path,” said Tanvanaki. “But here, everything comes in squares and rectangles. It’s like your people are afraid of the land itself and would only feel satisfied if it were confined in grids like those word-squares you draw on paper and the blocky logograms you carve.”

Though he had seen Dara from the airships many times, Timu now felt that he was seeing everything for the first time, through another pair of eyes.

“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing,” he said. “But it’s only because we cultivate the land that we can make it bountiful and feed so many. We do the same thing to the ocean, casting our nets into the water, dividing it into little squares, so that we can haul out the fruits of the sea. We may be blessed by a rich land, but we also have to work hard at it.”

“I suppose you’re more than just lucky. Some of the ways you make the land yield food do seem very clever, even if I can’t imagine subsisting on grass like sheep or cattle.”

A new idea flashed into Timu’s head like a lightning bolt. “Princess Vadyu, our peoples don’t have to be enemies. What if we can share this land and live side by side as neighbors, as equals? No more conquest and slaughter; no more enslavement and death?”

This must be what it feels like to be inspired, Timu thought. Master Zato Ruthi had always told him that a scholar’s greatest joy was to have a brand-new idea that had never been thought before, a flash of insight that chased away the darkness of ignorance and superstition. Though he had been Master Ruthi’s best student, he had never had a truly original idea until this moment.

Timu could feel Tanvanaki’s waist stiffen. And for a while she was quiet as he waited, trepidation in his heart.

“I suppose it’s worth a try,” she said. “I don’t know if my people can ever get used to the idea of tying down the land, carving it into square pieces and then living within the lines. We are used to having an open land and roaming as far as we like, whenever we like. Your way feels too much like prison.”

Korva took a sudden dive, and Timu cried out in surprise as he held tighter to Tanvanaki. Korva turned and flipped in the air, rolling a few times like a cat on the floor. By the time she straightened out, blood had drained from Timu’s face, and he no longer knew which way was up. Tanvanaki laughed.

“And you thought you would sit behind me stiffly because one of your silly scholars told you that was the right thing to do. Do you really enjoy the bounds of your rigid little box? This is what freedom feels like, Prince of Dara: There are no rules.”

Timu couldn’t answer; he was trying not to throw up. He decided he would just close his eyes and hold on to Tanvanaki. Though this woman was the daughter of a ruthless killer, at this moment, he felt that there was no one who inspired him more.

Freedom. Yes, freedom.

After flying for another hour, Korva was tired and landed somewhere near Kriphi. Tanvanaki brought Timu to her tent and treated him to a meal of roast beef and hearty stew made from nuts and organ meats. Though the Lyucu style of cooking was very different from the refined fare Timu was used to in the palace at Pan or the plain porridge and vegetables of the Rui peasantry, Timu found it satisfying after an exciting day spent in the air. He wolfed down his food hungrily while Tanvanaki looked on with a smile on her face.

Timu recognized some of the servants who brought the food and cleared the tables: prominent Rui nobles. They tried to avoid looking at him, and he felt uneasy. It didn’t seem right to be sharing food with their enemy in this intimate manner.

He wiped his mouth and sat up.

“Princess Vadyu, thank you for your hospitality, but I think it’s time to bring me back.”

“Oh? Are you tired of my company already?”

“It’s not that…. You’re a lady of exceptional grace and beauty, but… but our peoples are still at war—”

“Do you only think in terms of us versus them? Do you ever just think about your own feelings?”

“What do you mean?”

Tanvanaki looked him straight in the eyes. “You like me, don’t you?”

Timu blushed. Once again, the boldness of this Lyucu woman shocked and confused him. None of Kon Fiji’s fables and aphorisms applied. “I—I—”

“If you want to go, you may go. But first, have some kyoffir with me.”

A pouch of the strong fermented milk drink was brought out. Timu had never tried it, but he did know that the drink upset the stomachs of most people of Dara. He was about to say no—

“Do you hate my people so much that you can’t even share a drink with me? We don’t offer kyoffir to anyone except those we esteem.”

The way Tanvanaki looked at him, half-challenging, half-teasing, made him decide that he had to drink it. He didn’t want her to think ill of him.

All life is an experiment. Isn’t that what Father always says?

The smell of the drink was strong, but after the first taste, he soon got used to it. It wasn’t like wine or beer, but had a bite all its own. The thick liquid was not unpleasant, and he decided to drink as much as he dared to show that he wasn’t like the arrogant men of Admiral Krita’s fleet. He was a fair-minded prince, a scholar with original ideas.

He finished the bowl; his head felt swollen.

“Among the Lyucu, good friends must share three bowls of kyoffir before parting,” said Tanvanaki. Her face seemed to swim in and out of focus.

“Nothing would please more to be… than to be… considered the princess’s good friend,” said Timu. His thick tongue seemed to disobey his will.

Tanvanaki refilled the bowls and drained her bowl in one long gulp. She slammed the bowl upside down on the table and looked at him challengingly.

A storm raged inside his stomach, but Timu forced himself to drink the kyoffir.

The third bowl was even harder. By the time Timu finished, his face was flushed and as he tried to stand up, he stumbled and fell down to the floor. Tanvanaki came over to his side to support him.

“Why don’t you lie down for a moment? You’re not used to the kyoffir’s strength.”

Timu closed his eyes, enjoying the scent coming from Tanvanaki, a combination of flowers, spices, and the warmth of youth and sunlight.

Then he fell into a deep slumber.

I don’t think this… this is right, Tanva… Princess Vadyu!

Don’t you want to?

I… I do—

—Then it can’t be not right.

There are proper rites that… must be observed—

—Shhh, I’m observing them right now.

I’m not feeling myself. I don’t… don’t think—

—Your problem is that you think too much. Let your body do the thinking for you.

No, please. Please stop. No—

—I know you don’t really mean that. You say one thing with your mouth, but your body thinks another. Stop lying, Prince of Dara. Let your body express the truth.

Timu woke up, feeling utterly drained. He looked around and discovered that he was inside a large tent, lying on a soft pelt bed. He heard a rustling and looked to the side: Tanvanaki was sitting in front of a mirror, combing through her hair with an ivory comb. She had switched back to the traditional dress of the Lyucu.

Hearing the noise behind her, the princess turned around. “You’re awake.” Her tone was placid, a bit distant.

Timu nodded. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt as though something terrible had happened. “Last night, I… I…”

The princess walked over and knelt down next to him. She examined him carefully, as though looking at something fragile and precious.

“You’d better lie back down and get some more sleep,” she said. “Don’t worry, the drug will wear off in another day or so. I’ll come back later to see you.”

“What about my work? I have to meet my quota.”

“There won’t be any more quotas for you,” she said, and stroked his face gently. “You’ll be living with me.”

“I want to go back to the village where I was housed.”

“Do you really? After last night? How do you think your people will see you when they learn that I’ve taken you to bed?”

“What—”

But the princess didn’t wait for him to continue. She stood up and walked away. “I really do like you, but my father was willing to kill his friend and the garinafin that had saved his life for a better future for my people. I am my father’s daughter.”

Timu tried to say something, anything, but nothing came to mind as he experienced a deep sense of regret and dread.

The princess stopped at the entrance to the tent. Without turning around, she said, “The dream you had when we flew together… it cannot be achieved without much fire and blood. And I meant it when I served you the three bowls of kyoffir. I want you to know that.”

She left. Timu stared at the flaps of the tent until they stopped moving, and then he fell back into bed, sobbing inconsolably.

She spoke to him of the wedding plans—a simple affair that would combine Lyucu and Dara elements, of the eventual coronation ceremony, of the need for him to think of the future, not the past.

At night she slept next to him, keeping him on the inside of the bed, and it was not clear if she did it to shield him from the draft coming from the tent opening or to prevent him from escape.

She did not drug him again.

Lying in the darkness, Timu replayed the events of the day of the garinafin ride. He had been attracted to her, he could not deny that. He had allowed the flame of desire to drive out reason, to incinerate the words of the Ano sages, to turn the virtue he had been so carefully guarding into something bestial, something base.

Don’t you want to?

I… I do—

He had been weak, he knew. He had been at fault.

His father’s opinion of him had been right.

He could not imagine facing his family again after what had happened. The shame would be unbearable. He was utterly alone.

“When the Lyucu want something,” said Tanvanaki from next to him, “we simply take it. Do not let others tell you what you should do or want. Our lives are brief flash storms in the eternal scrublands of Time, and we honor all creation by living lustfully and passionately. Shame is a lie told to you by those who would enslave you rather than free you.”

Her voice soothed him like a mug of ice plum tea in summer or a cup of warmed rice wine in winter. Family should lift you up, not put you down, Timu thought. Wasn’t that what the Ano sages always said?

He turned to Tanvanaki and she had already opened her arms to welcome him.

He concentrated on his movements and the sensations coursing through his body to silence the voice of doubt, to drive out the lingering feeling of guilt.