by Joan He
“Why? Why are you doing any of this?”
“I need the general to do my bidding.”
“I won’t be your chess piece.”
“Do you have a choice?”
“He’ll never believe you! He thinks I’m dead!”
He leans back. “People believe what they want to believe.”
He saw this moment coming. The moment when she cracks. When she cries. The sobs rack her chest. The motions are not conducive to healing. He should make good on his word and light the medicinal candle. But he lets her have her grief. Without her, both his queen and the general would be lost. If not blown to pieces, then burned in the resulting firestorm.
Heat, however, is just concentrated light. She used her affinity for the shadows to move the blast into a diminished, future state. She saved them.
She can consider this as his token of gratitude.
He has the newest crop of examinee talent, who will help him transform the literature.
He has control over the city guard, who will maintain order in the turbulent days to come.
He has the throne as long as the general stays at the front. He has the means of keeping him there.
But most importantly, he has her out of this city, away from the assassination threats bound to come from sooths and humans alike. Because people detest change. They fight it tooth and nail.
But he will usher it in whether they want it or not.
He will welcome his people back home.
He will restore them as human beings.
There are institutions to end, people to kill. He keeps the Minister of Rites alive simply because that man and his cronies have their uses. But they will not live for long. He will end them himself. They will be the first of many he must end.
So he goes to his twin while he’s still the brother she knew. He kneels before her resting spot, her final words to him echoing in his head.
Let me protect my people.
He’d unleashed rationale unto her. They weren’t her people. She couldn’t share that identity when her blood didn’t flame. Because even though they’d both been borne from the same womb, at the same time, the power never manifested in her. She could have chosen the life of an ordinary person, a safe life. She didn’t have to stay by him. But she had, all nineteen years. And now she was saying goodbye.
He’d given up on rationale; he’d begged.
She’d simply touched his cheek. Stone-head. You can’t protect everyone.
He can.
He will.
When that day arrives, he will bring his queen back.
But until he has everything he ever wanted, he has only this: a tree that might not even survive to spring, the joss stacked high before it, the horrible candied berries his twin liked so much scattered in place of peach blossom petals.
He didn’t bring a flint. He doesn’t need one.
He bites his thumb. Lets the blood roll.
It splatters onto the paper money.
The joss catches fire seconds later. Smoke curls heavenward, carrying with it a wish, a promise, a truth yet to be realized.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I started writing this story in 2013, when I was younger than Hesina herself. Since then, it’s grown with me, helping me find my voice and my people. In some semblance of chronological order, my deepest thank-yous go out:
To my parents, who’ve supported me in all the ways that matter.
To my early critique partners Deborah Kreiser-Francis, Anne Cole, Jessie Devine, Rivka Gross, and Carissa Taylor. To Julia Byers; your journey made me feel less alone. To Kyra Nelson; you were the first industry professional to validate my work.
To Molly Calcagno, who helped me revise deeper than ever. To Mara Rutherford, whose one yes opened more doors than I can count.
To John Cusick, champion of this book through its many forms.
To Michella Domenici and Michelle Armfield, for your unflinching friendship and feedback. To Jamie Pacton, Kristen Ciccarelli, Joanna Hathaway, and all of Pitchwars 2015. To Kat Hinkel and Leigh Mar, the adults I aspire to be. To Kara Wolf; our turd frond-ship is a very special thing. To Megan England, Sheena Boekweg, Allie Schellong, Jenny Chou, for your perspective when I lost mine, and Danielle Rebisz Fifer, for restoring my faith in the book.
To my Soar to 1600 SAT students; I was in a summer of rewriting hell, but you made it memorable and fun. To my UPenn Chinese classes, especially EALC001 taught by Dr. Paul Goldin and TA Debbie Huang, and Li laoshi, for enriching my knowledge of the language and culture. To Jamie Lee and Lyndsi Burcham for being my Pusheen fam. To Jordy Carrick and Marisa Finkelstein, who remind me to be human.
To Christine Herman, Amanda Foody, and the cult for your support during the second round of submission.
To Eliza Swift, for taking this story in the best possible direction; Ellen Kokontis, for magicking it into a real book; and the entire team at Albert Whitman, for going above and beyond at every turn.
To Maura Milan, best publishing sister ever, for your guidance (and for Knives). To Judy Lin, for helping me through that final revision.
To Hafsah Faizal, Heather Kassner, and N. Rory Power; your generosity, grit, and talent inspire me every day. To the Novel19s; I’m so lucky to be sharing this journey with you.
To Marina Liu and June Tan, Alyssa Carlier and Grace Li. Your reads mean the world to me. To Lori Lee and Julie Dao; your words raise our community. To Krystal Song and June Hur, for making the dreaded book two a little less dreaded. To Hesina’s Imperial Court, for conspiring with me.
To Feifei Ruan, for the cover of my dreams.
To my Fanfiction.net readers, who gave me the courage to begin.
To William, who gives me the courage to go on.
To teenage me and teenagers like me. Our stories deserve to be told.
