CHAPTER ONEKANG ?
When he was a young boy, Kang dreamed of returning to the palace.
An envoy would arrive at Luzhou, a spill of color against the gray skies and black rocks. Musicians playing something bright and cheery, banners fluttering in the wind. A palanquin would deposit a blue-robed court official to stand on the sandy beach where these daydreams often played out before him, and they would unfurl an embroidered scroll—a decree from the emperor. His family would be asked to return to Jia, their positions restored, and he would return to his life among the palace children.
But no envoy came, and those childhood dreams faded away. Only now, waiting before the grand gate to the palace, did those memories return to him. Cutting into him like those northerly winds once did, filling his nose with the scent of salt. He knows the truth, though: The home he knew as a child was no longer. No dowager empress asking the kitchen to bring them another plate of sweets. No emperor uncle demonstrating calligraphy on a stretched canvas. No princess reciting yet another treatise on negotiation before their tutor. He came back under a rain of arrows, bringing with him nothing but lies and destruction. No matter how much he wants to pretend otherwise, he had a hand in everything that will happen after this.
His horse nickers softly, jostling the one beside him. The animal senses the change in the air, the shift in the wind. He thought a coup would be bloodier. Blood and fire, from the stories told by the teachers and his own fragmented recollections of ten years before. Instead, he saw the soldiers of the army stream into Jia’s crevices like water into a dry riverbed. The capital of Dàxi drank them in throughout the night, as the sky turned pale and a new dawn settled over the sleeping city.
The gate opens before him. Kang enters, flanked by his father’s men. Rows of soldiers stand at attention, clad in the black uniform of the city guard. A path had been left for them, and the soldiers bow when they pass. There is no sound of battle up ahead, no defiant clash of steel. There is only that weight of expectation, of coming change.
When he met his father at the teahouse, the general was all smiles, face reddened by wine. His father clapped him on the back, told him that he had done his part. Like a good son, a good soldier. Although he wants to enjoy the warmth of his father’s approval, Kang still feels a sense of unease at the back of his mind, like an itch he is unable to scratch. Zhen’s voice whispers to him: All these schemes coming to fruition, but at what cost? He thought she meant their fraud of a betrothal, but she laughed in his face when he said so.
One of the foot soldiers steps forward to take the reins of his horse, and Kang dismounts. An official greets him with a slight bow, dressed in the black and green of the Ministry of Justice, introducing himself as the Governor of Sù, Wang Li. They slip in through a side door and ascend the narrow stairwell hidden in the high wall beside the Courtyard of Promising Future.
“The General of Kailáng!” a herald announces in the distance, and the resulting cry is thunderous, echoing through the stone passage.
“I want to extend a personal welcome to you, my prince.” The governor is all smiles at the top of the stairs, gesturing for him to continue forward. “Welcome back to Jia.”
The sound of that title makes Kang’s skin crawl. Prince.
But the thought is chased away by what awaits him in the courtyard below. From this vantage point, he sees the court officials clustered in the space before the stairs that lead up to the Hall of Eternal Light, surrounded by the red of the palace guard and the black of the city guard. Some of them appear bewildered, while others have already fallen prostrate on the ground in their eagerness to show deference to the soon-to-be emperor. To Kang’s left, the long wall is lined with archers, and he sees similar bobbing shadows along the length of the far wall. Their presence obvious to those below, a reminder of the general’s power.
The general stands at the top of the stairs, adorned in full battle armor. He gleams black and gold from the curved prongs of his helmet to the shine of his boots. Chancellor Zhou stands to his right, dressed in formal court garb. There is no question who will rule and who helped him onto the throne.
Kang’s father raises his arms, and the roar of the soldiers falls silent. They drop to one knee in a salute, a coordinated wave. The remaining stragglers of the court still standing kneel as well, following the lead of their peers. But Kang commits those faces to memory, just as he knows the chancellor is also taking note. The ones who bowed first, and the ones who hesitated.
The general’s arms return to his sides as the herald steps forward again. “Rise to hear the words of the regent, soon to ascend to the throne of our great empire.”
The soldiers stand once again at attention with a thud of their spears, shaking the walls of the courtyard. The officials stagger to their feet.
“For some of you, it may be a surprise to see that I have returned,” the General of Kailáng’s voice rings out over the crowd. “I had willingly gone into exile so many years ago, wishing to see the glory of our great empire continue without internal strife. We cannot stand strong when we are fighting from within. I thought I would give my brother a chance, and instead, he sought to bring Dàxi to ruin.”
Father was always one for rousing speeches, known for his ability to stir up the blood of those who follow him, to encourage them to fight on his behalf.
“With all his own ambitions, he never thought one of his own would turn on him. The princess he raised poisoned her own father and attempted to remove those of the court who would stand in her way of consolidating power. I have been entrusted now with restoring honor to the Li name and securing justice for my brother’s death.”
The general’s impassioned speech seems to have thrown a hornet’s nest into the midst of the court, for they can no longer hold still and keep silent; they whisper and mutter among themselves at this revelation. Kang senses attention on him, and he struggles to keep his face impassive, even though his unease grows.
A girl told him about the components of the poison and its origins in Luzhou. A princess tried to hide the news of her father’s passing from the rest of the people. He has glimpsed only a small part of his father’s deeply laid plans, and the general has refused to respond to his questions about the origins of the poison.
He meets the chancellor’s eyes, and the man gives him a small smile before turning back to the courtyard.
The doubt crawls deeper under Kang’s skin. Does it matter if his father released the poison? The emperor is no longer, the princess is gone, the throne is empty and waiting for the one who will ascend it. But inside, the question still burns: Was it his father who gave the order?
“I will bring peace and prosperity back to Dàxi. I will root out the traitors, the corrupt,” the general announces with great fervor. “Starting with the palace. The traitorous princess and her pet shénnóng-tú have escaped the palace, but they will not remain free for long. The Ministry of Justice will bring them back.”
Chancellor Zhou steps forward and proclaims, “So wills the emperor-regent of Dàxi!”
“So wills the emperor-regent!” his subjects echo, and they kneel once again to receive his divine command.
His head bowed, face hidden from suspicious eyes, Kang feels his lips curve into a smile.
She’s alive.
CHAPTER TWONING ?
Mother said the world grew from darkness. From that great primordial nothing came awareness, and the first gods awoke from their slumber. The Great Goddess emerged, splitting the darkness open like an egg. With her brother, they separated the heaven and the earth.
Never forget, she told us. The world began with a dream. Our lives are the same. Keep dreaming, my daughters. The world is greater than you know.
* * *
Sunlight streams through the canopy of green overhead, leaves rustling slightly in the breeze. The air smells like a pleasant summer day, but I’m caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. I feel like I’ve forgotten something important, just out of reach. My body is jostled by movement underneath me, and I sit up too quickly, head spinning.
Trees fly past my eyes. My hands brush against rough fabric, a blanket that slid off me when I moved. I turn and realize I’m sitting in a wagon. My sister sits across from me, eyes closed, mouth moving. I know that expression: She’s working through a particularly difficult puzzle in her mind. Some sort of embroidery pattern, or accounting for ingredients in Father’s storeroom. But then her eyes snap open and meet mine. She scuttles over to sit beside me.
“You’re awake,” Shu says with relief, and then before I can stop her, she calls out to the two figures sitting at the front of the wagon, “She’s awake!”
I can’t help myself. I grab her arm to make sure she is real. I need to know I’m not still dreaming, sleeping on a boat floating down the Jade River, still trying to find my way back home. Or worse, curled up on the floor of the palace dungeons, awaiting the morning of my execution. Those uneasy thoughts chase away the heat of the day, leaving only a chill in its wake. Shu looks down at my hand, and then she places hers over mine.
She opens her mouth to say something, but before she speaks, the wagon jerks to a stop, throwing us forward. One of the figures swings over the front of the wagon and lands next to us, the brim of their wide hat casting their face in shadow. It is only when they look up that I recognize the face—her striking features, revered by poets in their flowery texts, which are now familiar to me. Someone whom I may even dare call a friend.
Zhen, the princess of Dàxi, is dressed in a plain brown tunic, her hair tied back in a long braid. Behind her is the driver, someone I recognize as well—Ruyi, her handmaiden, dressed in an identical brown outfit. They look like farmers returning from a day in the fields.
Ruyi gives me a quick nod of acknowledgment before turning back to urge the horse forward again with a click of her tongue.
“How are you feeling?” Zhen asks. Shu also looks at me with great intensity, and my sense of dread deepens.
I shake my head, still a little dizzy, trying to remember. “You’ll have to tell me what happened.”
Images then appear unbidden before me. The imposing face of the chancellor, sentencing me to death. The vivid petals of the peony bloom on Shu’s embroidery. Chasing my sister through dark woods. My father, weeping over her body. The descending form of the Gold Serpent and the flash of its vicious fangs … its bloodred eyes.
A sudden pain pricks the center of my brow, and I gasp, doubling over.
Agony spreads like wildfire through my body, obliterating all other thoughts. Dimly, I feel hands on me, helping me to lie down as the pain crashes over me again and again. I drift through it for a while. It could be minutes or hours, I do not know. Until finally, bit by bit, the pain eases. Until I can slowly find my way back to myself and push back to sitting again.
“Here. Drink some water.” A flask is thrust into my hands, and I pour the cool water into my mouth.
“You were asleep for three days and three nights.” Shu passes me a handkerchief to wipe my face, radiating concern. “Your fever was high, and Father tried to draw out the infection as best as he could. Some probably still lingers…”
I pulled Shu out of the darkness only to fall into it, and I remember nothing of what happened after.
“Father … where is he?” We set aside our differences in order to save Shu, together. But I have much more to ask him. About him and Mother in the palace. About what he gave up to start a new life in Xinyì. All that I never understood until I went to Jia.
Shu seems reluctant to speak. “After you lost consciousness, Father sent word to the village that I had taken a turn for the worse and could not make his daily rounds. Captain Wu came to check on me, and also to provide a warning.”
Our father once saved the captain’s life after a bad fall. Captain Wu has always been kind to us, trying to sneak us extra rations even though Father would usually refuse them.
“He warned us soldiers would come soon from Nánjiang to search for you, by order of the governor. Father permitted him to search our house while I hid in the bed with you.” Shu’s lips quiver with the memory. I reach out and grasp my sister’s hand, knowing it must have been terrifying to experience.
“Your father came to find us later,” Zhen tells me. “Told us we should be on our way. Provided us with the clothes and the wagon and said he would send them in the opposite direction if the soldiers came.”
“Why isn’t he with us?” I demand. “He’ll be in danger!”
Zhen exchanges a look with Shu. That familiarity sends a jolt of irritation through me. There is something they know that I do not. What is it they feel they have to hide?
“He didn’t want to,” Zhen tells me finally. “He said he still has patients under his care.”
Of course. His patients. His obligations.
“I tried to persuade him to come,” Shu says, but instead of reassuring me, it only irritates me further. How she always tries to see the best in people, even when they continue to disappoint us. She should not be the target of my anger, yet—
“Village up ahead!” Ruyi calls from the front of the wagon, disrupting the tension.
Zhen climbs back to the front while Shu looks ahead with interest, leaving me alone with my questions and my dark thoughts.
* * *
The slanting afternoon sunlight does not shine on a bustling village. Instead, only a scattering of chickens runs across our path when we enter the gates. We pass mud-brick houses built around small courtyards, separated from the main road by low wooden fences. One woman hangs her washing on a line, and Ruyi goes over to talk to her, returning with the location of an inn. Looking back from the wagon, I see her stare after us, only turning away when she notices me watching.
Ruyi leads the horse down another road and pulls into a wide courtyard with an opened gate. The plaque hung on the wall only indicates it is an inn, without an official name for the establishment. An elderly man comes out to greet us with a smile and takes the reins of the horse from Ruyi’s hands.
I slide off the back of the wagon, but my legs almost buckle under my weight. I steady myself against the side. If I have been asleep for three days and three nights, it would explain my overall weakness … and my growling stomach. Zhen chatters cheerfully with the elderly woman who comes out to welcome us with a platter of sweets. I hear her weave a tale about how we are pilgrims heading up to Yeliu to pay our respects to the Emerald Tortoise of the West.
I recognize now we are at Xìngyuán, a village before the mountain pass that leads to Yeliu. We are two days’ journey north of my home, a place I have never been. Zhen must be following the directions in Wenyi’s letter, as she had originally planned. She will ask for aid. I am grateful to her for helping me get to my village, diverting her plans so that I could save Shu. She did not leave us behind, even though she easily could have.
“Let me look at your wound.” Ruyi comes up behind me and steadies me, noticing how I can barely walk. “We’ll need to change the poultice again.”
When she mentions the poultice, my arm begins to ache, almost as a reminder. I limp over to the door Zhen and Shu have already gone through. Inside is a large room with several wooden tables and benches. Ruyi assists me to sit down heavily on one bench.
“I’ll bring some tea over to you, kind patrons.” The elderly woman ducks her head, and Ruyi follows her through the other door on the far wall.
I stare down at the bandage, remembering the serpent tearing his fangs into my arm, and the horror of returning to my body with those marks still on my skin. I’m filled with a strange desire to see what they look like now.
Shu hovers close to me, trying to be helpful, but I sense her anxiety.
“You don’t have to see this. Ruyi will help me,” I tell her, knowing she is uncomfortable with the sight of blood.
She tries to protest, but Zhen calls out for her help, and she leaves me with a reluctant glance.
When Ruyi returns with a large bowl of steaming water and some clean cloths, I had already used what remained of the fabric to clear away the poultice remnants to see the wounds directly.
Part of my arm is pink and swollen, warm to the touch. There are two gashes where the fangs punctured my skin and pulled away when I fell out of the tree in the world of the Shift and back into my own body. I once believed, as I told Steward Yang, that I was not aware of any magic that could send a person through time and space.
These marks tell a different story. There are darker magics out there than we know.
Ruyi helps me clean the wounds. I grit my teeth at the sharp, stinging pain. She pulls out the herbs soaking in a separate bowl and packs them onto my arm. The pungent scent they release is medicinal and familiar—it reminds me of my father. I swallow down my sadness and tell myself that he chose to stay behind.
After the poultice has been applied and the wrap secured, the warmth of it eases the ache slightly. I open and close my hand, feel the skin pull and stretch. We are done just in time for our hosts to welcome us to eat dinner in the back garden, where we are surrounded by beautiful roses in varying hues, growing on the fence and the trellis overhead. Pale white with edges of the lightest pink, bright yellow blooms the size of my fist, and peach-colored climbing roses with many small, delicate flowers. The fragrance complements our meal as we eat bowls of spicy noodles tossed in chili sauce, topped with crunchy pork intestines and bean sprouts. The noodles are accompanied by small dishes of pickled cabbage and radish. We also share a plate of zhéergen, a white tuber softened in oil, its sweetness a delicious contrast to the salty, cured sausage it is stir-fried with. The dishes of this village are considerably spicier than what I am used to, which is no surprise as this region borders Huá prefecture, well known for their love of chilis. Ho-yi and Ho-buo, the friendly innkeepers, keep our cups filled with chrysanthemum tea and refuse to be referred to by more respectful titles due to our elders.
Copyright © 2022 by Judy I. Lin
