The Dragon of Jin-Sayeng

by K. S. Villoso

  “Of course.” Namra gave an almost sad smile. “My lord didn’t see this coming.”

  “Your lord didn’t see many things,” I said. “And maybe that’s for the best.”

  We fell silent as we arrived at the edge of the forest. The town was built around a hill, enclosed by walls that spanned the height of five men. Even from where we were, I could see that the gates were closed.

  “The idiots,” Anya broke in. “That’s a fortress.”

  “The term warlord isn’t an affectation,” I said. “The Orenar clan didn’t rise to power overnight. Ask me how many have died on those walls.”

  Anya snorted. “Thousands, I’m sure.”

  “Tens of thousands,” I said. It wasn’t a thing to be proud of, and I wondered why I even bothered to correct her. We came around the bend of the road and fell silent. There were soldiers in the distance, outlaws armed with spears and swords. The number gave me pause.

  Deng rode down to meet us. “Impressed?” he asked.

  “The castle was guarded by a bunch of old men. I’ll be more impressed if you can stand your ground when Ozo comes to liberate it.”

  “We’ll be in and out,” Deng said. “Ozo won’t even have time to get here.”

  “What makes you think he’s not on his way already?”

  Deng glowered. “Then we’ll have to do this fast, if it means having to run through all the peasants first.” He snorted. “What’s that look on your face for? You royals have done worse. Do you think we can afford to sit around with our fingers up our noses while you come to a resolution over how to rule this land? If I don’t do this, my people will starve. These aren’t just bandits. They’re friends, family, cast-off members of the Nee clan that your father so conveniently stripped of what little wealth it had. You’d do the same thing in my place.”

  “Let me negotiate with them. Lord Ipeng will let us in if I ask him to. He still answers to me. He’ll have to.”

  “While he sends a rider to Oren-yaro behind our backs… no, thank you. I know how you royals’ minds work. Grandmother’s whims aside, I want this town for myself. I mean, you’re not just going to give it to me just because I asked.” He placed two fingers inside his mouth and gave a sharp whistle.

  From the distance, the whistle was returned, and men carrying long ladders emerged from the grove. They were followed by two rickety siege towers that creaked as they rolled along the road.

  I glanced behind, to the clearing where a small camp had been set up, far enough to be out of sight of the battle when it happened. The hag was sitting next to Liosa, trying to calm her down. She hadn’t stopped weeping since we left the temple.

  “Tell me, Namra. What do you think I did wrong in my past life?”

  She made a small sound in the back of her throat. “The Nameless Maker doesn’t believe in past lives.”

  “Humour me.”

  She smiled. “Let me see if I know how this works. You were born to be queen, so probably nothing too awful. You were probably a righteous bandit like Anya here.”

  “I never claimed to be righteous,” Anya snorted.

  “Stole from the rich to give to the poor?”

  “Why the hell would I give the poor something I worked hard for?”

  “My apology for the mistake.”

  I dismounted from my horse and slowly stumbled towards the fire. Peneira looked up.

  “You need to stop acting like I want to gouge your eyes out with my thumbs every time you see me,” I said casually. “I was getting cold. It is winter, you know.”

  “Can you blame me?” she asked. Somehow, she had managed to convince Liosa to allow her to hold her hand.

  “I am trying to work with you. You would think that I deserved less of your ire for it.”

  “You dare lecture me. A child like you.”

  “You really have been hiding in a hole the last three decades if you think I’m still a child.” I took a deep breath. “Won’t you consider abandoning this wretched task? You can take her to Dageis. How long do you really think you can hold this town against Lord General Ozo? He will come.”

  “He’s too busy licking the Zarojo prince’s boots as it is, just like he was too busy licking your father’s when he was alive.”

  I nodded towards Liosa. “She’s been through too much already. I think you know what you’re getting yourselves into, but does she? Too much ill has been done to her already. Ozo won’t care; he’ll kill her just as easily as he’ll kill the rest of you.”

  The old woman turned away and began caressing Liosa’s hair. Liosa stiffened for a moment, but the action must’ve reminded her of who this was—if not her mother, at least the source of a familiar comfort. She leaned on Peneira’s knee, allowing her to continue. I felt a rush of anger, followed by the weight of a grief I didn’t think ever existed.

  They attacked in the early hours of dawn.

  We remained in camp, listening to the battle cries amidst the smell of smoke and blood. Liosa covered her ears, burying her face in her lap as she rocked back and forth. Peneira never left her side. “It’ll be over soon, my love,” she crooned, words I didn’t think Liosa even heard.

  This, I told myself, was why she looked at me with so much hate. My father’s worst crime. Somehow, in the process of giving me my life, he had stolen theirs. I really couldn’t blame Peneira. I was a walking reminder of what she had lost. If there was a way to bring Liosa’s mind back without risk…

  I heard a horn in the distance, three full blasts. Peneira adjusted the shawl around her neck and entrusted Liosa to one of the other women in the camp. “They’ve broken through,” she said. “That didn’t take long.”

  “Easy to take, hard to hold,” I said, quoting a line from one of the books on military strategy Arro had made me read ten times over. I had thrown it on the floor on the eleventh. “That was why the Orenar clan left it when we built Oren-yaro.”

  “Don’t lecture me on the Orenar clan. I was one of you, if you’ve forgotten.” She walked past me as we went to the horses. My cooperation had earned me some freedom, at least—I was allowed to take the reins this time around. I followed Peneira’s horse as we crossed the main road, which was strewn with so many bodies you could barely see the soil underneath. The town’s gates were wide open.

  “Lord Ipeng’s soldiers have retreated to the manor,” Noerro said.

  “How many are left?” Peneira asked.

  “A dozen, maybe,” Noerro replied. “He knows he’s done for.”

  “We’ll all go together. Where’s the mage?”

  “Here, Grandmother,” one of the bandits said, pushing Parrtha forward.

  “I want my companions as well,” I demanded.

  Peneira frowned, but after a moment’s hesitation, she called for them to be brought through.

  The banners were being switched out on the towers as we took the urine-drenched steps leading to the hill. The town was in a sorry state, but nothing the residents hadn’t prepared themselves for. An hour after takeover and beggars were already returning to the streets, holding up tin cups to the bandits.

  A short bridge led away from the town. Peneira walked with the confidence of someone who had been there many times before—even as the bridge swung under our weight, wooden boards creaking, she strode blindly into the grey light. “This will frighten Liosa,” I said as I followed behind her. “She might fall.”

  She paused for a moment, her jaw taut. “Your false concern isn’t going to save you. One way or another, this will happen, even if it leaves you a drooling idiot. In fact, all the better if it does.” Surprisingly enough, there wasn’t a shred of malice in her tone—it was the voice of a woman already resigned to this. I had the sudden impression that even if you had told her the procedure would destroy us all, Liosa included, she would still carry through with it, just because she could. Just because it gave her a way to have the final say against my father—either she would undo what he had done, or hurt his daughter trying. Love and hate
were edges of the same sword.

  Light streamed through the trees and over the emerald-coloured lake as we came within sight of the house my father grew up in. It was nowhere near the size of Oka Shto—small even for a minor lord’s estate. There were soldiers waiting at the gate, swords drawn. Behind them stood an old man in full warrior’s outfit.

  “Ipeng aren dar Yare,” Peneira said, the venom dripping in her voice. “You’ve moved up in the world. Now you’re keeping house for a dying clan.”

  “A dying clan?” Ipeng huffed. “Warlord Yeshin’s fire doesn’t die overnight.” I saw his eyes as he spoke and the truth in them: They didn’t love my father. They feared him. They feared him, and so their loyalty could never be mine. The daughter had the father’s temperament, but none of his desire for blood.

  Peneira laughed. “Empty threats.” She looked around. Wistfulness replaced the expression on her face. “I was lady of this estate once.”

  Ipeng huffed over his moustache. “You gave that up when you ran away. Interesting, given we all know you only married Yeshin for his money and power. I suppose being a whore gets tiresome.”

  The smile on her face was cold. “Is this how you’re going to get started on begging for your life? By insulting me?”

  “As if I have any intention of begging,” the old lord said. “Kill me now and be done with it.”

  Peneira nodded to her men, who rushed forward. I stepped to the side and watched in silence as ten Oren-yaro soldiers were charged by three or four times the number in bandits. By the time it was over, only Lord Ipeng remained standing.

  “Throw him in the dungeons,” Peneira said. “An honourable death would be too good for him.”

  Ipeng didn’t reply, but the expression on his face made it clear what he thought of her. We strode through the gates as Peneira’s men led him away. There, in the small courtyard with alcoves covered in trailing vines, the old woman paused. A shadow crossed her face, and her fingers began shaking so hard her cane rattled on the stone path.

  “Too long,” she exhaled. I was the only one within earshot, but I wasn’t really sure she was talking to me. Her eyes were on the single terrace above the entrance, and I wondered if she could see something that I didn’t. Memories. Ghosts of the past.

  “You loved him,” I said out loud.

  “Loved,” she repeated, like it was the most disgusting word in the world. She spat. “He knew how to manipulate young women. I had no idea he was a self-serving, emotional fool—that his entire household quaked in fear of him. Arrogant. Conceited. A nightmare wrapped in golden foil. He ruined my life.”

  “Did you think you were marrying a pristine gentleman?” I asked.

  “Choke on your amusement. You’ve hardly made the wisest choices yourself.”

  “I haven’t allowed myself to be consumed with hatred as you have.”

  “Say that after you’ve watched your precious child abducted right in front of you, to be despoiled by a man old enough to be her grandfather,” Peneira said in a low voice. “Say that after you learn that the girl whose existence you tried to keep from him, because he thought the woman he wed was a maiden, because you knew in the back of your mind he would take the life you had before him as an affront… is now broken and witless, incapable of remembering you or living a life for herself. So many years of love and care, so many years when I daren’t even let a fly land on her, gone in the blink of an eye.”

  “They said she ran away from you. That he never really seized her as tribute the way I’ve been told he did.”

  “He might as well have. He turned her against me. I knew him well. It was his vengeance.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you really defending him?”

  “I’ve never defended anything he did,” I said in a low voice. “But if I knew about this from the beginning, I would’ve tried to help. Believe me, Peneira. I would’ve done everything.”

  “Everything?” She smiled. “Somehow, I doubt that.” She made a sweeping gesture with one arm, bidding me to follow her into the house. The hall was empty—the servants must’ve fled as soon as the soldiers had decided to make their stance. I noted a solarium to the right before I strode into the main hallway, where the floorboards had been polished to a bright sheen. To the left stood a large room, with sitting mats and houseplants arranged around a round table. I spotted the remains of a hastily abandoned meal of fried plantains. A dusty piano stood at the far corner of the room, half-covered with a red blanket.

  The old woman went up the staircase, lit by orange sunlight broken by the wooden lattice of the old-fashioned windows. There were shelves with small figures of Akaterru, potted plants, and necklaces of dried jasmine. Framed paintings hung above them as a sort of shrine. I found my father immediately—that same imposing figure, only younger; his was the smallest frame of the bunch.

  My eyes wandered to the other paintings. An old, kind-faced man that I could only assume was my grandfather. Other young, lordly men, my father’s brothers. Maybe it was because I had known him in life, but compared with them, my father’s eyes seemed to burn the brightest. How an artist had managed to capture that light, I couldn’t say, but I suppose it shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

  And there, on the wall directly across from Yeshin, I saw renderings of my brothers. Taraji, Senjo, Lang, and Shoen’s images stared back at me as they never had in life. I lingered over the rendition of Taraji and swallowed. The brother I’d never known looked exactly as he had in my hallucination. The piano downstairs was his. I didn’t even think to question it—some things you just know.

  The old woman looked at me strangely. “How much did he tell you about your family?” she asked.

  “Not much,” I muttered. I turned to her. “You knew my brothers.”

  “I mourned when I heard what happened to the boys. Your father’s carelessness…”

  “I know. I know what killed them.”

  “I was married to the devil long enough,” Peneira said. “His first wife died giving birth to Shoen. So yes. I watched them grow up. I cared for them, in my own way. They were good children. Taraji was a gallant young man—you’d have a hard time believing he was Yeshin’s eldest. Generous to his friends, kind to his enemies. And Lang, that Lang… such a sweet boy. He loved dancing. He was convinced he would someday find the courage to convince your father to let him work at a theatre. My heart ached for his loss the most. They were good boys—nothing like Yeshin. But if you ask me, it’s a good thing they died young. Look at what you’ve done in the three decades you’ve been alive.” She turned to me, eyes hard. “If the rest of Yeshin’s children had survived, the whole world would burn.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  TURNING THE PAGES

  I was given a room with a mattress, where I attempted to gather a few hours’ worth of sleep. The dreams came, as they always do; a muddle of images and memories, interspersed with everything I learned that day. Every single thread revolved around my father, the murderer, the sadist, the opportunist. An evil man, an unworthy man. A man I loved, all the same.

  I woke up to realize Liosa had wandered into my room. From the light streaming through the windows, I figured it was late afternoon.

  “What are you doing here?” I managed to croak out.

  She didn’t reply. But she held something out to me excitedly. A storybook. I pulled myself up against the wall and watched as she sat beside me and opened it to the first page. Her finger hovered over the words before she glanced back, looking at me expectantly.

  I swallowed and began to read.

  The words made no sense as my lips glided over them. I supposed it didn’t matter. She wasn’t listening to the actual story, just marvelling at the sound of it, at the rhythm, while her eyes skipped over the faded ink drawings on the pages. I fought not to become overwhelmed by the strangeness of it all. Reading to the woman who gave birth to me, who seemed more child-like than my own son had ever been… the tangle of emotions suddenly seemed more convoluted than my dreams.
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  I stopped at a blank page, which had been scribbled with the image of a dragon. The would-be artist had signed it with his name: Shoen, the youngest before me. Right at the very bottom was another word that made me laugh. Father, it said. The ink around the word was smudged, as if someone had dripped tears on the paper before wiping them away.

  “Where did you find this?” I asked.

  She gave me a puzzled look.

  I held up the book. Recognition dawned on her face, and she pointed at the floor underneath my bed. One of the floorboards was loose. I got on my knees to take a closer look and found a box right below the floor, filled with all sorts of children’s toys: dusty marbles, finger puppets, a wooden top. There were also more storybooks, and notebooks with bamboo covers, held together with string.

  I dumped them on the floor between me and Liosa. She picked up one of the storybooks, her face full of delight. My attention, however, was drawn to the notebooks, my brother Shoen’s journals. I flipped one open to a random page.

  Father tells me I need to learn to be a man, that I have to put aside all childish things and join him in Oren-yaro. He says I need to train with the spear and sword, and be proficient in order to defend my brother Taraji when he becomes warlord. So I’m putting my things away. Captain Ozo is coming for me in two days…

  The entry, too, had smudges. He had marked the date plainly at the top, making him twelve years old on the day he wrote it. I paused, remembering that he died in his twelfth year, probably not long after he wrote the entry. Knowing that the rest of the pages would be blank, I closed the journal and picked up another one.

  This entry was dated at least a year earlier. Shoen was talking excitedly about Taraji’s visit. Taraji, it seemed, took time fairly often from his duties to take Shoen fishing and to regale him with stories of his travels through the west, where he once met a young man from Akki on his way to Cairntown to seek his fortunes. I could tell from Shoen’s tone that he worshipped Taraji, whereas he had a less-than-favourable opinion of the second eldest, Senjo, whom he described as “a turd stuck to the heel of Father’s boot.”