River of Stars

by Guy Gavriel Kay

  Small things: Daiyan would remember after how wrong it had felt, that he was alone in a room with the man who had been the Son of Heaven and that the room was so sparsely furnished, all treasures taken away, and no fire lit in winter’s cold.

  Wenzong looked as he had both times Daiyan had been in his presence: once, to be promoted for saving the life of the emperor’s favourite writer of songs, and then bringing word of a tree uprooted from a distinguished family’s graveyard. A man had died because of that.

  On closer inspection in the half-light gloom, that impression of sameness was a lie, shaped by reverence more than anything. Wenzong looked as weary and worn-down as ... well, as all of them did.

  I ought to hate him, he thought. He didn’t. He couldn’t.

  “I am greatly honoured, exalted lord,” he said.

  Wenzong twitched his head. “No reason to be, any more,” he said. “My status means nothing. I mean nothing. Stand, please.”

  Daiyan stood. He cleared his throat. He said, “You withdrew to help your people. That means something.”

  “After failing utterly to protect them? No. I should not be alive, I carry too much shame.”

  Daiyan lowered his head. He had no idea what to say.

  “I have offered to surrender. To take the prime minister with me into the barbarian camp. Let them carry us north as an indication of contrition, acceptance of responsibility.”

  Daiyan looked up. “They would not go away, my lord. Not before taking all we have.”

  “I know,” said the man who had built the Genyue, who had authorized the Flowers and Rocks. Who had probably had no idea how it supplied his beloved garden. Who should have known.

  Daiyan said, “I tried to tell this to Emperor Chizu. If the barbarians are set on taking everything in Hanjin, there is no reason for us to be their servants in doing so. Make them fight us for what they want.”

  “And leave a memory for Kitai. I heard you. It is why I am here.”

  “You were in the throne room, my lord?”

  “Behind the screen. An old device. There have even been times when a trusted empress hid back there to advise, afterwards.”

  “The emperor seeks your advice?”

  Wenzong smiled thinly. “No. But there are some still loyal to me, and I have ways of being in that room when it seems necessary.”

  “I am sorry,” said Daiyan, though he wasn’t sure why.

  Wenzong stood. A very tall man, half a head above Daiyan, thin as an artist’s brush. “I came to say that I agree with you. It is better, if we are to fall, that we do so with pride. To let the story run down the years. It is not just about our own lives. That was well said, Commander Ren.”

  Daiyan lowered his head again.

  “Commander,” said the father-emperor, “you must leave Hanjin. If I could order you to do so, I would. I believe you are the one who can best lead resistance, and that will not happen if you are killed here, or taken away as a prize.”

  “It is always more than one man, my lord.”

  “Always. But a man can make a difference.” Wenzong hesitated. “By his virtue, or lack of it.”

  “And a commander who flees a city under siege, my lord? A city he is charged to defend? If he assembles an army to fight, against the will of his emperor? You heard what was said. The treasure we have gathered is to be sent through the gates this week. One of your sons, Prince Zhizeng, goes as hostage against delivery of the rest.”

  “He didn’t want to,” said Wenzong softly. “He was chosen for the wrong reason. Those two of my sons have never liked each other.”

  Daiyan looked at him. This face with the narrow beard was the face of Kitai’s sorrow, he thought.

  Wenzong said, “There will be no entirely correct answers, Commander Ren. We are mortals, trapped on one side of the river of stars, with the Weaver Maid on the other, divided from us. And how shall we hope to cross to her?”

  What was there to say to that?

  “What will calligraphy considered fine as gold mean in years to come?” Wenzong asked.

  Again Daiyan had no answer. This was deeper than he could go.

  “I didn’t think you would leave,” said Wenzong finally. “But I thought I should tell you my wishes, nonetheless. You are dismissed, commander. Conduct yourself with honour. You have our gratitude, whatever follows.”

  He walked to a door on the far side of the room. There are always other doors in palaces, Daiyan thought. He was close to tears. The door was opened from the other side when Wenzong tapped once upon it. He turned back a last time. Slender Gold they had named his calligraphy; he might have been the finest painter of his time.

  “The ruins will declare that the garden was beautiful,” he said, and went out. Daiyan never saw him again.

  Three days later, not long after sunrise, the ruin of Hanjin began.

  Carts pulled by bullocks or by horses began rumbling through the principal northern gate. It took a long time. The Kitan leading the carts were sent back in for more as soon as they’d taken treasure out. Altai riders took over.

  There were men on the walls and at the gate who counted the numbers and later compared tallies—to preserve details for a record they hoped would survive. And there were others who did use these numbers in histories of that time.

  There is a value to precision, when it is possible. There is, equally, a problem with illusions of exactitude. Despite claims otherwise, no one knew, for example, exactly how many died in the various sackings and burnings of Xinan, either during the rebellion in the Ninth Dynasty when it had been the glory of the world, or before that, in the Seventh, or at the hands of the Altai that same autumn.

  Similarly, there were records made and preserved of the colossal treasure sent out in those carts, but it was acknowledged that the values were inflated, to make it appear that Hanjin was coming closer to the agreed-upon sums.

  The barbarians, although they had men who understood finances and calculations (mostly Kitan clerks, from the occupied prefectures), did not bother checking. Not with the fixed intention they had of taking everything.

  The day the carts rolled out happened to be mild, sunny, with a breeze from the west. The records indicate as much. There was probably birdsong.

  Prince Zhizeng, ninth son of the father-emperor, brother to the reigning one, accompanied the treasure. He rode a good horse, though not one of the best—why give it to the barbarians yet?

  He rode unfashionably well. He was in his early twenties, almost as tall as his father, though plump, round-faced. His nickname was Prince Jen, after a celebrated figure from the early days, though he wasn’t handsome or brilliant. A poet had written a verse about him a few years ago, making that association, and the poet was well known, the verse memorable. Such things can shape a reputation, quite apart from any link to truth. Writers have the power to do that.

  He was very much afraid as he passed through the city gate and came among the barbarians, and he wasn’t entirely successful in hiding this. He was a hostage against delivery of the rest of their agreed-upon sum, and there was no indication how they were going to do that. There had been talk of assigning value to men and women, and offering them to make up the (very considerable) difference.

  But even if that happened, why would the Altai give back young Prince Jen?

  He was inwardly cursing his brother—and his father, unfilial as that might be. He was certain he would never return to Hanjin. The only question left was whether he died here in some horrifying way, or they carried him north and his days ended far from home.

  He was unarmed, of course, as were the six men escorting him. Not nearly enough for a prince’s dignity, but it was what the steppe riders had allowed. The Altai might disdain to examine the rumbling carts as they took possession of them, but the prince’s escorts were closely observed for weapons on the wide roadway outside the gate. Not that they feared these hapless Kitan handing over all their wealth, but they had their orders, and the two brothers who led th
em ... well, those two they did fear.

  Ren Daiyan, in the dark-green tunic and brown over-tunic of the prince’s livery, did have a thin knife inside one boot: the concealed blade Ziji had devised for them years ago.

  Only a handful of people knew he was out here, disguised. Prince Jen (silly name) wasn’t one of them. Daiyan had two reasons for being here. One he had barely acknowledged to himself. The other was that he wanted to see the brothers leading this force. There was no particular military sense to that, but it mattered to him to have faces to attach to the names ravaging Kitai.

  It had occurred to him that if he killed the war-leader and his brother today, the Altai might fracture into dissension, a battle among warriors to succeed the old kaghan, now called an emperor. The leaders here might gallop back north, stake out their claims, attack each other.

  Most likely not. Most likely they’d be even more savage when they took the city. For the man who took command here, control of Hanjin’s unimaginable wealth, returning with its leaders and women, would surely be a winning roll of dice in any conflict on the steppe.

  Besides which, he had no way of killing them. He wasn’t even sure he’d learn who they were, these brothers poised to take the city.

  They were going to take it. Hanjin was being handed to them. He had tried to speak up for resistance, and Emperor Chizu’s face had gone bleak.

  “No,” he had said, and Daiyan had had the feeling he himself was being carefully noted in that moment, and not happily. Did it even matter any more?

  Some in the palace claimed to believe the Altai would go home once they had enough slaves: the next step of these hideous negotiations. Daiyan flinched away from even imagining it. What was a princess of Kitai worth as a concubine? As a slave to wash a horseman’s feet, be claimed for his pallet, exalting him among the riders? What sum could possibly be proposed?

  And how much for a woman from the imperial clan? If she was young? Could write songs? If her calligraphy was better than any man’s? The bitterness in his throat gave him an understanding of what taking poison might be like.

  In the far distance, he knew the river would be shining in the light. The Golden River curved a long way south here, nearing the sea. There had been elm trees lining the road all the way to the riverbank. They’d been cut down by the Altai for firewood.

  Their yurts and horse pens filled the plain. They stretched as far as he could see, and there were almost as many to the west and south. They had judged there were about eighty thousand of the horsemen here, mostly on this northern side. He had conjured battle plans in sleepless nights. If Ziji could bring an army quietly from the west they could coordinate an attack against the smaller contingent of the Altai on that side, do it swiftly, savagely, at night when the riders didn’t like to fight. Ziji could fall upon their rear as Daiyan burst through the southern and western gates with his cavalry and the soldiers of the city. Those soldiers weren’t the best men, they weren’t his own, but surely they would battle for Kitai if properly led?

  They could use fireworks to light the sky, frighten the enemy, let them mark their foes—for one of the dangers in night battles was attacking your own forces in the wild dark.

  He could put archers on the ramparts, sending arrows down on the riders here as they tried to sweep around to help the others. He didn’t have enough good archers but he had some.

  They would be outnumbered, his soldiers—they’d have to be, to leave Yenling defended properly—but they could fight bravely and die if they were destined for that, and leave a legacy of honour. They could try to ensure there would be a future for Kitai. That this invasion, this cold, hard sorrow, would be but an episode, a dark chapter among many over centuries, but not an ending.

  If he’d been allowed. You could only do so much, if you were not the Son of Heaven. In fact, he thought, you could only do so much if you were.

  He rode behind the prince, head lowered, but eyes alert. He had his other, barely acknowledged reason for being here. He needed to pay attention, and hope for luck. Surely some small good fortune might be vouchsafed them here by the Queen Mother of the West, from her mountain peak beside the stars?

  The Altai lining the roadway were mostly smaller than the Xiaolu he’d seen in summer. They wore their hair with the front and crown shaved, long on the sides and down the back. They wore no headgear. Some had no tunics or vests, proudly bare-chested in winter to prove their hardiness. They carried short bows and short swords. Most were on horseback, though there was no need for that just now. These men, he thought, must feel themselves to be in an unfamiliar world when not on a horse in open country. It was a reason he’d believed they could fight them, in the close engagement of a siege breakout at night.

  He’d never, in sober truth, believed that he could defeat them, even with Ziji bringing forces up. There were too many riders, they were too experienced, he’d have only some of his own army.

  He’d been through this in his mind too many times. There was nothing left to think about. He was escorting a young prince to what was certainly his death, one way or another. The prince knew it. You could read it in his face. Daiyan wished he could say Don’t let them see it, but he couldn’t. Bitterness. The dregs of bad wine.

  The Altai lining the roadway and back from it, watching the procession, were laughing, grinning, pointing to the riches on the carts. The sun was up. Gold glittered in the wagons, the flash of gemstones, silver. Sunlight on surrender.

  The noisy, laden carts were being led towards the back of the encampment, nearer the river. Adjusting his hat against the brightness, Daiyan saw a cluster of men to the left, waiting, or so it seemed.

  A rider detached from that cluster. He trotted a grey horse over, came up to the prince. Zhizeng flinched as the man drew near. Daiyan saw the Altai rider grin. The man feigned a blow. Zhizeng, to his credit, did not move this time. Daiyan couldn’t see his eyes, but the prince’s head was high now, after the one lapse. Good for him, he thought. The rider stopped smiling. He seized the horse’s reins from Zhizeng and led him over to the group by the road.

  Daiyan looked at the other escorts. They’d stopped, apprehension in their faces. They would be over there, in that group, he thought: the two brothers. He needed to hear what was said.

  “Come,” he commanded, though he had no authority here.

  Sometimes authority came because you claimed it. He twitched his reins, moved off the road. The other five followed him. He stopped a judged distance away from the group to which Prince Zhizeng had been led as if he were a child on a pony. Daiyan could see them clearly but he posed no obvious threat, unarmed, head submissively lowered, another of these weak, frightened Kitan handing away an empire, uncertain where to be just now, outside their walls.

  He watched. Someone lifted a hand and pointed. He saw where the man pointed and he marked it in his mind. Small gifts. He gave thanks. It was what he’d come out for, besides killing two men, which he couldn’t do.

  A rider trotted his horse over to him and the other escorts, gesturing violently towards the city gate. They were being ordered to go back. Other Altai came, made it clear with their signalling. There was no chance to resist. There was no point.

  He turned back with the other five. They went past carts still rumbling out. They would be rolling through the gate for most of the day. A short day, he thought, then midwinter twilight. Probably snow later. It was almost the New Year, time of festivity.

  He looked back once. Saw Zhizeng, Prince Jen, among the Altai, alone. They had made him dismount, had taken his horse. It wasn’t his any more. The prince was standing among mounted enemies. His head was still high, his back and shoulders straight. No sign of fearfulness or submission, Daiyan saw.

  People could surprise you. Could make you proud unexpectedly, move you to grief.

  With the first warnings that arrived, of the Altai coming down in great force towards Yenling, Hang Dejin had sent his son away, along with almost all the attendants and labourers and the wo
men at Little Gold Hill.

  There was difficulty with Hsien. He had been determined to remain with his father, or to bring him with them. The old man was fairly certain that his own son was aware of the courage shown by Lu Chen’s son, accompanying his father to Lingzhou. People honoured that filial devotion. Given that Hang Dejin and Lu Chen had been fierce political opponents, it would have been difficult for Hsien not to be thinking about another son and father.

  Of course he might be unfair in this surmise. His own son had been unfailingly loyal all along, ever present, anticipating needs, skilful and adroit in all tasks. There was some difference between being steadfast in the palace, in high office with great rewards, and going to exile in a deadly, distant place, but loyalty was still loyalty in a son. Hsien had almost surely expected to be prime minister after his father, but had just as surely understood (or said that he did) why this had not been, in his father’s view, the right time. That view had been proven calamitously correct.

  Sometimes you might prefer to be wrong, the old man thought.

  There were only three servants left to him, plus a man to deal with the animals, and two in the kitchen. Seven souls on a working farm of several buildings. It was winter now, and cold. They had completed their usual preparations before the others went away. With only the seven of them they had more food and drink than they needed.

  They had been safe from the Altai, thus far. The horsemen had Yenling encircled, but not securely, and not without casualties. The Kitan commander there, Zhao Ziji was his name (he had been here, with the other one), was extremely capable, it seemed. He (and the other one, Ren Daiyan) had inflicted a ferocious defeat on the Altai north of the city, destroying a large part of the steppe riders’ army—and the idea of Altai invincibility. The horsemen investing Yenling now had come through Teng Pass from Xinan in the west.

  The stories from Xinan were bad.

  He was old, had read widely in history, had lived, it sometimes seemed, through a great deal of history. He knew of many times when cities had been taken by savage foes. The thing you realized, with a long enough view, was that darkness could pass, changes could come and bring light back. Sometimes, not always.