Descendant of the Crane

by Joan He

  The years have passed. She no longer believed that her father could keep all his promises—even the impossible ones—but she wished she could go back to those summer nights of cicada song floating through his fan-shaped windows, of falling asleep on his lap with his hand crowning her head, of stories and explorations of passages yet to be discovered.

  “But only you can decide the life you want to live.”

  Maybe if she weren’t heir to the throne.

  “Carve your own fate. Understand, Little Bird?”

  She didn’t, but for her father, she lied. “I understand.”

  A hand rested on her forehead, cool and dry against her hot skin.

  “Queens are supposed to stay away from bombs.”

  That sounded reasonable enough to Hesina.

  “And assassins,” said the voice, much quieter.

  Probably. Some assassins carried bombs and knives and poisons. But maybe there were other assassins who only carried rods.

  Some, she wanted to say, but not all.

  Wake up, Little Bird.

  She shouldn’t have woken up.

  She should have died. Mei had died. Gone without a trace, whispered the Doctress’s apprentices when they thought Hesina was unconscious. They puttered around her, dabbing her forehead with a damp washcloth. Not even a body to collect.

  They squeaked when Hesina asked, “Where’s my brother?” They flinched when her voice rose. “Where is he?”

  “In better shape than you,” answered the Imperial Doctress as she swept in. And then, before Hesina could cry ugly tears of relief, a medicinal candle was lit and the fumes sank her into a drug-induced sleep. Dreaming of One-Eye’s leering face, she convinced herself that he was her father’s poisoner. Never mind the logistics of how the sooth would have procured some legendary poison and known how to use it. He hated her. He hated the Eleven. It made perfect sense to her murky unconscious. In her dreams, she hunted him down and avenged Mei.

  But when Hesina next woke, she stared at the turquoise-stained wood of the ceiling—adorned with golden turtles and yuanyang ducks and ginseng sachets looping down like vines—without emotion.

  She should have died.

  Why hadn’t she?

  Was it because she was an abomination, just like her father? Had she died and somehow come back? Was Sanjing an abomination too?

  Alive. The Imperial Doctress said he was alive. But the Imperial Doctress had also claimed her father was dead. Who could Hesina believe?

  Only herself.

  She needed to see her brother with her own two eyes.

  She deforested her arms of acupuncture needles. They pinged onto the floor. She sat up—and almost fainted. Her back was a map of pain.

  Gut twisting, Hesina drew her hand away from the valleys and ridges of burned flesh and slipped her legs over the bedside. The air felt cool on her shins, the huanghuali floor solid beneath her feet.

  Stand, Hesina.

  So she did.

  She tried and failed, in her usual fashion.

  She hit the floor with a thump that rattled her teeth and quaked through her skull. But nothing was as loud as her scream. The skin on her back was melting off. It had to be. Tears swam down her face by the time the Imperial Doctress flapped through the fretworked doors, a horde of apprentices trailing her.

  “Fools! Who let the candle burn out?”

  Three apprentices rushed to relight the medicinal candle. Four surrounded Hesina, dabbing at her face.

  The explosion of activity was too much. “Don’t touch me,” ordered Hesina, and the apprentices scampered back.

  “Dianxia—” gritted out the Imperial Doctress.

  “Take me to my brother.” Hesina let some of the more seasoned apprentices help her to her feet.

  “I’ll summon him.”

  “No.” She couldn’t meet him in a room that reeked of her weaknesses. “I’ll go to him.”

  “In due time,” said the Doctress. “You’ve been bedridden for eight days.”

  Too long.

  “When your strength returns, we—”

  Hesina grabbed onto a shelf lined with delicate ceramic jars of the Doctress’s precious tinctures. She made her threat clear.

  “Take me. Now.”

  The Doctress didn’t need to be told twice.

  The apprentices rushed for a stretcher, but Hesina stopped them. She would walk to her brother, even if it killed her. She had the strongest ones support her by the arms, and together, they made the slow, awkward hobble out of the infirmary. Sweat crowned her brow as they entered the facades. She pushed on.

  Confusion clouded Hesina’s mind when they passed her brother’s rooms. Then they arrived at hers, and there he was, facing her desk, alive, standing, the bandage around his head the extent of his visible injuries.

  Hesina could have collapsed right then and there.

  But she didn’t. She left the apprentices at the door and entered on her own.

  “They say you threw yourself on top of me,” Sanjing said when she was halfway to him.

  She wobbled to a stop, and he spoke again, still facing away. “You shouldn’t have bothered.”

  “Jing—”

  “Do you want to know the first thing I thought when I came to?” He turned. His face was pale but uninjured. It was his eyes, the black of them matte like Go stones, that sapped the last of Hesina’s strength.

  “When I learned she was gone, I blamed you. I blamed you for the explosion, for the fact she was in that cell to begin with. I told myself nothing would be this way if it hadn’t been for your trial.”

  His first words pierced her, needles to her heart. His next tugged, drawing out the crimson threads.

  “Then I saw you. You were on the bed next to mine. I woke. You didn’t. I was walking the next day. Your fever didn’t go down for a week. When the Imperial Doctress changed your bandage—”

  He broke off, throat bobbing.

  “They say you threw yourself on top of me,” he whispered after a long silence. “They say they had to pry you off. And too late, I…I—I realized—”

  “Jing.”

  “—you still saw me as your brother—”

  “I always—”

  “—when I didn’t deserve—”

  “Jing. Stop.”

  He did, and silently began to sob.

  She lurched over and pulled him into her arms. “It’s okay.” She didn’t mind that he blamed her, or that they only knew how to make each other whole when they were broken. For once, she didn’t want anything more than just to hold him. “It’s okay.”

  He shook harder, his fist clenched around a figurine. It was the seal Hesina had taken from him, not quite lion, not quite dog, a funny-looking thing that Sanjing wouldn’t have picked for himself. A gift.

  He held on to it as though it was the only thing he had left.

  Her throat closed. “What happened to…to the others?”

  He shook his head.

  So they were dead like Mei. Gone. Blown to pieces. Irretrievable.

  Then why, why, why were they still alive?

  Sanjing wanted to know the same thing. “Why?” he gasped when the sobs racking his body diminished to spasms. “Why are we still here, Sina?”

  “I don’t know, Jing.” She didn’t want to know. But if the reason was what she’d suspected, she’d never tell. She’d taken away her brother’s only friend. She wouldn’t also take away his memory of their father.

  After Hesina’s little act of rebellion, the Imperial Doctress stationed imperial guards outside the infirmary doors. Hesina pleaded for her release. The most secure dungeons in the entire kingdom had just been breached. Five of the elite guard had died, along with the first soothsayer convicted in the last thirty years. The people could be razing the city to the ground, for all she knew, while she lay in bed and let it burn.

  Her arguments would have impressed Caiyan, but the Doctress was immune to rationale. “The people want to see a healthy queen,
” she said testily. “Not a fainting queen.”

  Hesina railed and hissed and downright threw a fit, but mostly, she hated the woman for being right. Her back was healing at the rate of a silkworm’s crawl. Her thoughts ran sluggishly, like a stream choked with sediment, and if she wasn’t hallucinating hummingbirds into the beamed ceiling, she was pining for Akira, which, in Hesina’s opinion, also counted as a sort of hallucination. But she didn’t mind those as much. Akira slowed the pace of the world around her and made it easier to breathe. She wanted him here with no words, no gestures, no intentions between them, just the quiet rain of wood chips from his rod pattering onto the floor.

  He didn’t come. Neither did Caiyan, much to Hesina’s consternation. When the Imperial Doctress could finally be persuaded to allow visitors, Lilian and Rou were the first to bear news of the outside world. Hesina asked after Mei’s parents and the sooths in the caverns. Safe and provisioned for, they reported. Hesina let herself relax for all but a heartbeat before asking about the state of the kingdom.

  Lilian and Rou glanced at each other.

  “It’s not pleasant,” Lilian finally said.

  “Show me,” Hesina ordered as the Imperial Doctress ushered them out.

  Several folded papers made their way onto her breakfast tray the next morning, tucked beneath the steaming shaguo of black sesame porridge. They were torn, their ink characters smudged, as if hands had grabbed them fresh off the printing blocks.

  TERRORIST ATTACK IN IMPERIAL DUNGEONS

  SOOTHSAYER PRISON BREAK ENDS IN MURDER AND DESTRUCTION

  QUEEN HESINA ON BRINK OF DEATH KINGSLAYERS AGAIN ATTEMPT REGICIDE

  No wonder Caiyan hadn’t visited yet; Hesina could only imagine the state of the court. Appetite gone, she set the tray aside and hobbled to the fretwork sliding doors, pulling them apart to reveal the patio.

  Another dawn. Another view of the mists enshrouding the silk ponds, the banks cottoned with snow, lily pads dotting the surface like little white islands. So peaceful.

  So false.

  Her mouth soured. She turned away from the patio, hands balled, her heart jittering behind her ribs like a caged bird. She’d reached the end of her patience. Tomorrow, she was getting out.

  She had one of the apprentices send a message to Rou.

  In the morning, Yan Rou of the Southern Palace came down with a dreadful case of diarrhea that required the Imperial Doctress’s immediate attention. The moment the woman left, medicine chest packed for the hike across the imperial grounds, Hesina glared the apprentices into submission and had her pages call an emergency meeting with her vassals and ministers.

  She summoned her maids to help her prepare. Some gasped upon seeing her back, but Ming’er worked silently, putting Hesina in a black ruqun embroidered with white camellias, their glossy, teardrop leaves rendered in emerald silk on the bixi panels draping the skirts. It was a prudent choice. The black drew out the olive undertones of Hesina’s skin, and she left the infirmary looking more alive than she felt. Sanjing offered his arm at the doors, and she leaned on him as they made for the throne hall.

  “Dianxia!” Ministers dropped into koutou when brother and sister crossed the threshold. “Wansui, wansui, wan wan sui!” Ten thousand years, ten thousand years, ten thousand of ten thousand years.

  Forget about years. Hesina just wanted to live through today. It hurt to walk. It hurt to breathe. Yet somehow—thanks to Sanjing’s iron grip—she reached the dais just as the enamel pythons laid into the walk began to ripple and swim.

  She sank into the throne with a wince of relief. First order of business, done; she’d made it to her meeting in one piece. Next order of business: Bring the realm back from the brink of self-destruction.

  Elevens help her.

  Sanjing positioned himself at her left. Caiyan was already at her right. Hesina assumed he hadn’t visited her in the last four days because he was busy, but now he didn’t even look at her. Her anxiety spiked. She tried to tame it before facing the sea of kneeling officials.

  “Rise.”

  Everyone had answered her summons, from minor courtier to the six ministers. They forested any space between the pillars, standing so close to one another that the black wings of their wusha caps brushed.

  One by one, Hesina called them forth.

  The Minister of Works reported that all industry within the city walls had halted, and cases of looting and public works defacement had skyrocketed. The Minister of Personnel reported that sector magistrates could no longer keep their residential wards under control, and that neighbors had turned on one another, demanding proof in blood. The Commandant of the city guard reported that his forces were spread thin in restraining the vigilante groups.

  So this was why the Imperial Doctress had been so keen on keeping her locked away. Hesina’s back tingled as the blood required for healing rushed to her heart. She tried to will some to flow to her brain. “How many vigilante groups?”

  “Roughly twenty. The largest one is comprised of blacksmiths and skilled laborers. They call themselves Children of the Eleven.”

  The irony. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry.

  The explosion had unleashed suspicion among the masses. Not only did people believe soothsayers were living disguised as their neighbors and friends, but they also believed the king’s real killer remained unfound among them.

  “But the perpetrators are already dead,” Hesina said. “So is the convicted.” Her mouth went grainy, and Sanjing tensed.

  “Who’s to say that the perpetrators weren’t working as part of a bigger group?” asked Xia Zhong. His neck was bare of scarf and beads. His bruises, Hesina noticed tartly, had finally healed.

  “As for the convicted,” said the director, and Hesina glowered at both men, “it turns out your representative presented quite the convincing defense. She was guilty of being a sooth, yes, but few believe she was the king’s true murderer.”

  Akira had constructed a solid defense. Would things be different if he hadn’t?

  But the reality couldn’t be changed. Fifty-two civilians were dead. Hundreds were injured. One sooth had been identified by the vigilante groups and hastily executed. He’d burned to death on the seventieth cut.

  Just when Hesina thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did. Secretariats approached with sheaves of papers. As Hesina spread them out on the ivory kang, they explained that messenger pigeons had been flying over the imperial city and the surrounding provinces for days now, dropping Kendi’an stamped leaflets. The city guard had tried to collect as many as they could, but some, inevitably, had fallen into the people’s hands.

  TO ALL THE SOOTHSAYERS

  WHO DISPLAY STRANGE AND UNUSUAL POWERS,

  YOUR KINGDOM HAS ABANDONED YOU.

  OURS WELCOMES YOU.

  SEEK SANCTUARY ACROSS THE BORDER.

  Hesina envisioned the Crown Prince, lips draped with a smug smile. You are no better, he’d say. And he was right. By dropping these letters, he was fanning bloodthirst against the sooths. All he needed to do now was sit back and watch her people tear themselves apart before striking.

  She managed to set down the letters without crumpling them. Her gaze sliced to the assembly ground. “Kendi’a lies. Their goal is to enslave the sooths.”

  Her officials tutted in disgust. At least they could be trusted to condemn slavery, which the Eleven had outlawed along with serfdom.

  “Grand Secretariat Sunlei, see that this corrected information is posted around the imperial city and flown into the affected provinces.”

  “Understood, dianxia.”

  Hopefully, it’d calm the people’s anger against the sooths. And hopefully, it’d stop sooths from seeking “freedom” across the border.

  But Hesina wasn’t optimistic, and her hands balled as she realized something else.

  “Eleven days.” Her voice boomed through the faux archways. “It’s been eleven days since the explosion. The fastest falcon takes twelve to reach Kendi’a, an
d another twelve back. Do you know what this means?”

  She met the gazes of as many as she could. A minister. A viscount. A marquis. A page. She let her eyes fall on Xia Zhong as she said, “We have turncoats in this city. People are printing these letters as we speak.”

  A stir went through the ranks.

  “And I have an inkling who they might be.” Neighbors looked to each other, and a pathetic trill of satisfaction went through Hesina. If she couldn’t out the minister, she’d at least raise the collective vigilance.

  “Any news from the borderlands?” she asked the Grand Secretariat.

  “Not as of this point.”

  Good, because another disappearing village would be the people’s final straw.

  Hesina was done playing games with Xia Zhong. She couldn’t sit around and let Kendi’a ambush Yan in its weakest moment. She had to make the first move, even if it meant conceding defeat.

  “The truce ends here,” she said. “I want militias of the western provinces mustered, organized, and stationed at the border by the end of the week.”

  “They’ll need a leader,” piped a marquis.

  “I’ll go.” Sanjing stepped forward. “I’ve dealt with the Kendi’ans before. I know their tricks.”

  His bandage had been removed; the cut on his temple had scabbed. But his real wounds were invisible, and Hesina didn’t want to send him away so soon. The kingdom had already taken so much from them. Why give more?

  You must always love your people, came her father’s voice.

  He must have conveniently forgotten that the sooths were people too. But his teachings were a part of Hesina. His love was the sky she turned to when she couldn’t breathe in this lacquer box of a home. She couldn’t forgive One, but One wasn’t the man who’d shown her how to plant a persimmon tree from a branch, or the man who’d spent so many nights entertaining an audience of one.

  And now he spoke to her, whether Hesina wanted to hear him or not.

  You must give them your heart.

  And then? she thought bitterly. What do I give up next? But she already knew the answer.

  Her name.