River of Stars

by Guy Gavriel Kay

  The drumbeat changed. He’d been waiting for it.

  From the hills on both sides of the open ground where they’d arranged this battle, new arrows began to rain down, and then—from each side—more foot soldiers emerged, and his own ten thousand cavalry, held in reserve, burst from the screening hills where they’d waited all morning as the Altai surged past to meet the main body of their army.

  He’d set up two possibilities with his officers on the slopes. If their men showed signs of breaking under the riders’ assault, the drums were to signal their horsemen from hiding and the hidden archers would fire at will towards the middle of the Altai horde. With fortune, and skill, this might break the advance of the enemy, turn enough of them to let the ground troops stand.

  But if the soldiers of Kitai held, if they wreaked havoc with swords and arrows, if they did what they were here to do and the Altai turned back, their wave broken ... then Daiyan’s horsemen and the second wave of archers were to attack the retreat. Their riders would smash into the enemy, forcing a halt, letting Daiyan and Ziji’s advancing soldiers catch up. They would take the barbarians on three sides.

  The bowmen and foot soldiers in reserve were rebels from the south. He’d offered amnesty to any man who joined his army, and a soldier’s wage to anyone who could use a bow. “Turn your anger against real enemies,” he’d told them in a marshy field by the Wai River. “Let anger drive us north again.”

  He saw the Altai reining up as they encountered fresh Kitan horsemen thundering from both sides. He saw them struggling to decide which way to turn in swiftly narrowing space. He saw them begin to drop as arrows began to fall. He caught up to the nearest ones. They were enclosed, uncertain. He set aside his bow, his sword was rising and falling, hacking and chopping, he was deep in blood.

  COMMANDER REN DAIYAN’S army killed so many of the invaders that day, on a plain north of Yenling, that the earth in that place could not be farmed or grazed for generations. It was called an accursed place, or a sacred one, depending on who you were. There were ghosts.

  That autumn morning and afternoon saw victory on a scale unknown for a long time in Kitai. It was on their own soil, against intruders, not pushing their northern borders back to where they once had been, but everyone knew—poets, farmers, generals, historians—that men fought more valiantly defending their land and families.

  That day’s fighting would be sung in Kitai. It would be chronicled, become part of one man’s legend. But it wouldn’t shape or define the events of that year or the ones that followed. That happens sometimes.

  To the west, Xinan, once the bright glory of the world, fell undefended to the Altai force sweeping down upon it. The army sent to stop them by the Golden River had melted away like snow on slopes when spring comes with plum blossoms.

  Xinan had fallen before. It had been sacked before. It would not be historically accurate to say this was the worst, but it was very bad.

  In the east, above the imperial city, a different Kitan army would face the Altai and their war-leader, Wan’yen. The results would be predictable. The road to Hanjin lay open, afterwards.

  Shan’s husband and her father, who are supposed to shape and guide her passage through the world using the teachings of the Cho Master and his disciples, are both determined to stay in Hanjin. Neither will leave, though for different reasons.

  She is angry and bewildered. Is it one’s duty to accept the folly of others and die—or be seized for slavery? Is that their acceptable fate? Do neither her father nor her husband realize that a court gentleman and a member of the imperial clan will be immediate targets of the Altai when they come?

  They’d learned the results of the battle north of them. Word is all over the city. It is impossible to keep such tidings confined. Not in Hanjin.

  There is widespread panic. Panic, Shan thinks, is an appropriate response. Would it be more philosophic to be indifferent? To expect heavenly intervention? A tail-star bringing death to the invaders?

  Is it wiser, perhaps, to stand under cypress trees and discuss the best way to balance duty to state and family?

  She is angry as much as frightened. There had been nothing necessary about this calamity. It has been caused by arrogance and incompetence. She does not want to stay. If their leaders have undertaken to destroy them through vanity and cowardice, that doesn’t mean every man—or woman—needs to placidly accept it.

  Although, in truth, there is nothing placid about the city now. A great many men, most of them students, have been gathering in front of the palace each morning, and staying past darkfall. They are shouting for the heads of the imperial advisers. Soldiers keep them from the gates, but the crowd has not dispersed.

  A stream of people—massive crowds—are reported to be spilling out of Hanjin in all directions at all hours. From her balcony Shan can see some of this, over the compound wall. They are mostly heading south, of course, though some (with money) are going towards the sea, hoping to find a boat to take them away, also south.

  Others are apparently going west towards Yenling, where one army (she knows whose army) has made a triumphant stand for Kitai, for civilization, destroying an Altai force.

  So the second city of the empire is still defended, and rumour is that part of that army is headed this way. They are mostly on foot, however, and the Altai coming south are horsemen. She wonders if Daiyan is riding. He must be, she thinks. She wonders what will happen when he comes.

  There is no clear word yet from Xinan, farther west. There is an expectation in the city, a dread, really, that the tidings will be bad.

  They still have fighting men, the imperial guards, the magistrates’ guards, soldiers posted to the capital, and they have their massive walls, but the field armies of Kitai are unlikely to be here before the horsemen come.

  Why, then, would one stay? Her father had answered simply, the evening before, sipping tea, looking up at her, where she stood confronting him.

  “They won’t stop here, Shan. Some will sweep around us, and people fleeing are likely to be killed or taken. And the ones that are not, hiding in forests or fields, are probably going to starve with winter coming. This has happened before. How will so many descending on the countryside or into villages and towns be fed?”

  “How will they be fed here,” she’d demanded, “if we are besieged?”

  “Not easily,” he’d admitted.

  Already some servants sent out to the markets have not returned. They are fleeing, of course. There are reports of food being stolen at night. Sometimes even by the guards, someone has said.

  Her father added, “Here, at least, the court is in a position to negotiate from behind our walls. We have granaries and well water. It depends what the northerners want. I don’t think they like sieges.”

  “Do you know that or are you just saying it?”

  He’d smiled. The smile she’d known all her life. He’d looked tired, though. “I think I read it somewhere,” he said.

  Northerners. Her father didn’t call them barbarians. He’d stopped doing that some time this year. She isn’t sure why.

  This morning, a windy autumn day, she’s come outside to find her husband. Wai is in their courtyard, among the plinths and bronzes he’s brought back from all over Kitai. Years of love and labour. He is warmly dressed. She is not.

  “Why are we staying?” she demands.

  Wai is also drinking tea, from a fine, dark-blue porcelain cup. He wears gloves. He answers her, an unexpected response.

  It seems he has attained a new awareness of the honour and importance of the imperial clan. So he declares. He is courteous (he is always courteous). His father, he informs her, has expressed the view that at times such as this, one turns to rituals and tradition, trusts the emperor, who holds the mandate of heaven, trusts his advisers.

  “Trust Kai Zhen?” Shan exclaims, not all that courteously. She can’t help herself. “Who was going to exile my father to Lingzhou? Whose wife tried to have me killed?”

&
nbsp; “Personal quarrels must surely be set aside at times like this,” her husband murmurs. He sips his tea. “All of Kitai is in danger, Shan. Although my father believes,” he adds, “that we will be able to offer enough in tribute to appease the barbarians. After that, after they carry it away, we can address issues of responsibility at court. That is what he says.”

  She is still angry. “What about Yenling? The girl, Lizhen? The steward?”

  He meets her gaze. “The steward’s name is Kou Yao,” he says.

  Shan nods. “Yes. So, what about Kou Yao? Are they also waiting for whatever comes?”

  He gestures, aiming for the casual. “I decided to send them south, to my mother’s property. It made sense.”

  It made sense. She stares at him. Awareness comes, illumination. “Do you know what I think?” she asks.

  Qi Wai manages a small smile. “You’ll tell me, I hope.”

  “I think you are unwilling to leave the collection. That is why you are staying. Why we are. You don’t want to lose it. If leaving is right for them, it should be for us!”

  His eyes flick towards his newest treasure, the tomb warrior from near Shuquian. It is so old. It is the history of Kitai, one measure of it.

  He shrugs, again trying to seem at ease. “I certainly wouldn’t trust anyone else to take care of it,” he says.

  Shan feels sorrow suddenly, not anger any more. Strange, how quickly rage can go. Overwhelm you, then disappear. It is windy, clouds swift above them, the trees rustling. Geese are flying south, she’s seen them every day.

  She says, quietly, “Wai, you understand that even if your father is right, if this becomes some enormous tribute to the barbarians, they will take the collection. All of it.”

  He blinks several times. He looks away. He looks very young. She realizes that his nights are filled with such images, a torment.

  “I wouldn’t let them do that,” her husband says.

  LATER THAT SAME DAY, towards sundown, Lin Shan, daughter of Lin Kuo, wife of Qi Wai, is summoned to the palace. She has not been there since summer.

  The emperor is not in his garden. It is cold, a hard evening wind blowing. Shan has changed into her best blue-and-green robe, with her mother’s earrings again. It fits her well, high to the neck, duly modest. She wears a fur-trimmed cloak over it. The men who come to bring her have indicated that she is to proceed with them immediately, but they always say that. She takes the time to change and attend to her hair. It is pinned, of course (she’s a married woman), but not in anything like court fashion.

  She isn’t one of the women summoned to be beautiful.

  She is taken by the guards down the long corridor that links the compound with the palace. The wind is sharp as they cross a courtyard, and then another. She has her hands in her sleeves. She is shivering. She is thinking about songs. He will want one. It is why he summons her.

  She has no idea what the emperor’s mood or mind are now. Does the Son of Heaven know the same fears as ordinary people? The people she hears shouting outside the compound, the ones she knows are funnelling out of the city right now, through the hard chill of this twilight?

  Wenzong is in a room she’s not seen before. It is heartbreakingly beautiful. Subtle, not overbearing. Beautifully carved sandalwood chairs and tables, a wide couch of rosewood with green-and-gold silk cushions, the scent of the rosewood hovering.

  There are flowers in white-and-red porcelain vases on tables (fresh flowers, even in cold autumn). The tables are ivory and alabaster, green and white. There is a jade dragon. Lamps are lit and three fires for warmth and more light. There are scrolls and books on shelves and a writing table with the four tools of the craft. The writing paper, she sees, is palest, creamy silk. There are six servants and six guards. Food is on a long table against one wall. There is tea, and wine is being warmed. This might be, Shan thinks, the most beautiful room in the world. She feels sorrow.

  Smaller than his formal reception chambers, this is the chamber—it is obvious—Wenzong uses for his quiet pleasures. His paintings adorn the walls. Orioles, bamboo in leaf, a flowering peach, the blossoms so delicately rendered you can imagine them quivering if a breeze came into the room. Every painting has a poem written on the silk, Wenzong’s own calligraphy. The emperor of Kitai is a master of these things.

  His city, his empire, are being invaded by hard men on horses, bringing bows and swords, anger and hunger, scenting weakness. Men for whom this room, its history, its meaning are next to nothing, or entirely nothing.

  What might superbly painted springtime blossoms of a peach tree mean to them? Or the old poem by Chan Du beside the image, in a hand so elegant the words might as well be gold or jade?

  What is lost if this is lost? Shan thinks. She feels that she might cry if she isn’t very careful.

  The emperor wears a simple red-and-yellow robe with an overrobe and a soft black cap pinned on his head. He sits on a wide chair, not a throne. There are circles under his eyes. He is not yet fifty years of age.

  Two sons are with him here. The heir, Chizu, and one of the others, she isn’t sure which. There are so many princes and princesses, children of different mothers.

  Chizu looks angry. The younger brother looks afraid.

  The emperor is quiet, thoughtful. Shan looks for the prime minister, Kai Zhen. She considers him her enemy—though she is too trivial for him to know that, or care. He is not here. It is not a room of state.

  The emperor of Kitai watches her as she performs the obeisance. She sits up, hands on her knees. There are dragons and phoenixes worked in jade on the marble floor and there are small jade pieces on the small round tables near the emperor’s chair. He holds a yellow porcelain cup. He sips tea from it. Sets it down. He says, “Lady Lin, there is a pipa here. Will you offer a song? Music warms a cold night.” An old saying.

  “Gracious lord, there are so many better singers. Would you not have one of them ... ?”

  “Your voice is pleasing to us, and your words are. We are not of a mind to summon performers tonight.”

  Then what am I? Shan thinks. But she understands. She is a poet, a songwriter, not a trained singer or dancer, and the words are what he wants, not crafted performance by someone exquisite.

  She has sometimes wondered what it might be like to be exquisite.

  Which words? It is always a decision. What words for a cold autumn evening, with their army scattered and the Altai coming down and Hanjin in frightened chaos?

  She feels the burden, feels herself inadequate.

  The emperor looks at her. He rests an elbow on one high arm of his chair. He is a tall, handsome, slender man—like his calligraphy. He says, “You are not being asked to capture the times, Lady Lin. Only to offer a song.”

  She bows again, her head to the marble floor. It is too easy, sometimes, to forget how intelligent he is.

  A servant brings her the pipa. It is decorated with a painting of two cranes flying. A log settles on one fire, sending up sparks. The younger prince looks quickly that way, as if startled. She recognizes him then. This is the one the people call Prince Jen, a name of affection, a hero from long ago. His name is Zhizeng. Eighth or ninth son, she forgets. He doesn’t look especially heroic, Shan thinks.

  Not being asked to capture the times.

  Who could do that? she thinks, but does not say. She says, “Serene lord, accept a humble offering. This is a ci I have written to the tune of ‘Silk-Washing Stream.’”

  “You do like that tune,” the emperor of Kitai says. He is smiling a little.

  “We all do, my lord.” She tunes the pipa, clears her throat:

  I stand upon my balcony,

  Looking down on ancient bronzes

  Beside the courtyard fountain.

  The evening wind rises.

  Geese fly overhead, going south.

  Leaves fall into the fountain,

  One and then another.

  Far away, mountains gather clouds.

  Somewhere it is rainin
g.

  Here it grows dark under the river of stars,

  Then the moon rises over houses and walls.

  Shadows of trees lie along the ground.

  I cannot keep the leaves from falling.

  There is silence when she is done. Both princes are staring at her.

  This is so strange, she thinks.

  “Another, if you will be so gracious,” says the emperor of Kitai. “Not about autumn. Not falling leaves. Not about us.”

  Shan blinks. Has she erred? Again? She busies her fingers on the instrument, trying to think. She is not wise enough to know what he needs. How could she understand her emperor?

  She says, “This is set to ‘Perfumed Garden,’ which we also all love, my lord.” She sings, though it requires a voice with more range than hers, then she offers a third song, about peonies.

  “That was very well done,” says the emperor, after another space of quietness. He looks at her a long time. “Please convey our greeting to Court Gentleman Lin Kuo,” he says. “We will let you return home now. Music has layers of sadness, it seems. For you as well as for us.”

  Shan says, “My lord. I am sorry. I am—”

  Wenzong shakes his head. “No. Who sings of dancing, or laughing cups of wine, in the autumn this has become? You have done nothing wrong, Lady Lin. We thank you.”

  A servant comes over and takes the pipa. Shan is escorted back the way she’s come. It is even colder in the courtyards as they pass through. The moon is rising ahead of them, as in her song.

  Her father is waiting at home, worry written on his face, relief when she walks in.

  Later that same night word reaches the imperial clan compound that the emperor of Kitai has abdicated the throne, in sorrow and shame.

  He has named his son Chizu as emperor, in the hope that the Altai will accept this as a gesture of contrition for arrogance displayed in dealings with them.

  I cannot keep the leaves from falling, Shan thinks.