by Natasha Ngan
The three of them decide to get some sleep, but when I leave, I pass the door to my bedroom. I continue to the bathing courtyard as originally planned, half hoping to find Aoki or Wren there. Still, when I find it empty, I’m suddenly grateful for a moment to myself.
Hidden in the steam, I undress by my usual tub, throwing my dirty clothes to the floor with slightly more force than necessary before climbing into the water. It takes a long time to scrub the dirt from my body. Even after I’m clean, last night’s smoke clings to me, an invisible second skin. I stay in long after my fingertips grow wrinkly, unable to shake the unease that’s been coursing through me all night. Every time I close my eyes the image of Wren and the assassin is waiting for me—the surprised look on his face, the calm, focused expression on hers.
She’s a true Xia. A warrior.
A girl trained to kill, in the heart of the kingdom.
A girl who can get closer to the King than most.
I can think of an explanation as to why, but I’m not sure I want to believe it.
Just as I’m about to get out, the sound of approaching steps makes me start. I swirl round, splashing water over the side of the barrel. Through the clouds, I make out a tall figure coming toward me. My belly loops. It’s her.
I duck lower, crossing my arms over my chest, suddenly hyperaware of my nakedness.
Though Wren’s face is composed, there’s a tender look in her eyes. She stops a few feet away. “Can we talk?” she asks, and the tentativeness in her voice—the idea that she’s even worried I could say no—strikes me with fresh guilt.
I nod, but she doesn’t come any closer.
Even in last night’s ruined dress she is beautiful. Though the jade-green silks of her hanfu robes are slashed and charred, the color still brings out the glossy tan of her skin, the definition of her long, muscled limbs. My instinct is to run to her, to hug her, kiss away her pain. But even if I understand why she did it, the memory of her stabbing the man in the tunnel holds me back.
That wasn’t the girl I kissed two nights ago in a dark bedroom. The girl who held me as I cried under the whispering boughs of the paper-leaf tree, who made me feel so safe.
My eyes drop to the stain of blood on the collar of her robes. “You killed a man,” I state, hollow.
“Only to protect you and Aoki.”
“And that makes it right?”
“Of course not. But I had to do something, Lei. He would have tried to kill us all.”
A bead of moisture slips down my temple, and I swipe it away, hurriedly crossing my arms again. “It wasn’t us he wanted. They wanted the King. And he wasn’t even there.”
“Is that why you’re angry?” Wren asks, an odd tilt to her voice. “Because you wanted them to kill him?”
I hesitate. “Maybe,” I murmur, my cheek turned. Then I look back, forcing myself to meet her stare. “What do you think?”
Wren’s expression is unreadable. She stands stiffly, arms rigid at her sides. “‘Just as Zhokka and Ahla chase each other across the skies,” she recites, “does darkness not follow light, and light follow darkness, neither one truly ahead of the other?’” The saying is old, familiar with everyone in Ikhara. “I like to think there’s some good behind even the darkest sins. That death can be warranted if it paves the way for hope.”
I edge forward in the tub. “Is that why you are a warrior? Because you are, aren’t you, Wren? You fight like the Xia.”
Her neck flexes as she swallows. I sense her wanting to refuse to answer, but finally she gives a small jerk of her head that I take as a nod. “I’ve been trained in the Xia form since I was young.”
A flashback to the glimpse of her feet that morning before the Unveiling Ceremony, when she held up her robe as she stepped into my room. So that’s what turned them rough.
“Trained by who?” I press.
“My father, partly. And my shifu, Master Caen.”
“They can fight like the Xia?”
Wren shakes her head. “My father is skilled at qi work, and Caen is one of Han’s finest fighters. But I’m the only one who can bring the two together properly, the way the Xia did. It’s in my blood,” she finishes softly.
I remember her sadness at the temple in Ghost Court, her longing for her lost family. The same sense of loss rings in her voice now.
“Why were you even taught?” I go on, more gently now. “I’m guessing daughters of nobility don’t usually get trained in martial arts.”
“Actually,” Wren says, “they often are. Especially in Ang-Khen and Han. Though it’s seen as more of a ceremonial skill than one to be used in real battle.”
“But yours isn’t just an aesthetic practice.”
“No.”
“And it’s a style that the original King himself outlawed.”
“Yes.”
“So why was it allowed?”
“It… wasn’t. I was trained in secret.”
Silence unfurls between us at this.
Wren remains still, not breaking eye contact. There’s a defiance, a pride to the set of her shoulders and the way she lifts her spine tall, chin slightly tilted, that brings me back to the aloof girl I first met all those months ago. But despite her posture, that girl is looking at me with such tenderness in her eyes it makes my heart lurch, and all the intimacies we’ve shared shine within her warm irises, as luminous and sweet as stars.
Part of me is hurt by how much Wren has hidden from me—and I can tell she’s holding back even more. But tightness knits my chest at the thought of losing her.
It hits me then how much trust she’s putting in me by telling me this. I could ruin her with this information. Her entire family. The Hannos are some of the King’s most trusted supporters, and here is Lord Hanno’s daughter herself, a warrior trained in a forbidden language of fighting, within the palace of the demon whose ancestor massacred those who practiced it.
And I think I know why.
I take a breath, readying myself to ask her. But before I can say anything, Wren crosses the distance between us. Without a word, she reaches back and releases the sash round her waist.
I splash back, gaping at her. “What—what are you doing?”
“There are some things about myself I can’t tell you,” she interrupts, quiet and fierce, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to give myself to you. I’m always truthful to you in here, Lei.” Her fingers hover over her heart. Then, holding the collar of her robes, she draws them off her shoulders and lets them drop to the floor in a cascade of silky fabric.
Wren’s body is so different from the other girls. Lives of luxury have kept their figures soft, but hers is muscled and strong. Beautiful and dangerous. My eyes travel over her long, elegant neck; her wide shoulders; the deep shadow down the center of her chest, a line I long to follow with my tongue.
I return my gaze to her shining face. “Wren,” I begin, but she shakes her head.
Slowly, not taking her eyes off mine, she climbs into the tub. As she slides down in front of me, water rolls over the edges and up to my neck in a warm wave that reminds me afresh that Wren isn’t the only one who’s naked.
I shrink back. “We—we can’t do this. Not here. Someone could see.”
“They’re all sleeping.” Her voice is husky. Low. Wet fingertips lift to my cheek. “Don’t worry, no one can see through the steam. We’ll hear them coming anyway.” She moves closer, her breath hot against my face. Something more than desire shimmers in her eyes, some tender vulnerability that is betrayed in her voice as she goes on, “Last night I could have lost you.”
The steam lifting from the water swirls around us, a soft cocoon.
“You saved me, Wren,” I whisper. “Aoki, too. You got us out safely. I’m sorry I didn’t thank you last night. It’s just—”
“I know.”
“I was shocked.”
“I know.”
“Scared.”
Wren scoops her hand behind my head, dipping her forehead to m
ine. Her lashes flutter. “Me, too,” she sighs.
“You didn’t seem it.”
“I’m trained not to. I’m trained to be strong. To not let anybody see my weaknesses. My fear. But I’m scared, too, Lei.”
I lean back to look at her. Her face is grimy from ash and sweat, and her black hair is streaked with more dirt. She looks just how she sounds—tired. Broken. The circles under her eyes are deep, like bruised fruit. Tangling my fingers in her hair, I draw her close. I kiss each eye, as gently as I’m able. Then her lips.
Compared to our first kiss, this one is gentler, but no less deep.
Mouths, and softness, and the liquid heat of the steam. Our hands holding each other’s faces in tight, as though we’d be lost without the press of the other’s mouth to ours. There are words in our kiss. I feel them between our lips, unspoken but just as clear as if we had been talking. Or perhaps more clear because we’re not. There’s no hesitation or misunderstanding to block or diminish their meaning. Just the simplest, most instinctive language of forgiveness.
Forgiveness, and hope.
One of my hands moves down Wren’s back, skimming her shoulder blades to nestle in the low curve of her spine as our bodies arc together under the water.
Footsteps. Entering the courtyard.
In an instant, we untangle. Wren jumps out of the tub. She slings on a bathrobe as a figure comes into view through the swirling mist.
Blue smirks at the sight of us—me, breathless and flushed, water shifting around me; Wren dripping water onto the wooden boards, the sash around her robe hastily tied. My lips feel swollen from the press of Wren’s, and I resist the urge to cover them with my hands.
“This is intimate,” Blue purrs.
“I was just leaving,” Wren says smoothly, pushing her hair back over her shoulders.
Blue arches a brow. “Already? You haven’t even washed your hair.”
I glance at Wren, my breath hitching. Her hair is still matted with ash, and knotted now from my fingers. Giving Blue a cool, I don’t know what you’re talking about stare, Wren strides out of the courtyard, every bit as composed as usual. But I can tell by the way Blue’s smile widens that she has noted my alarm. And while she may not know what just happened, she can certainly make a few guesses.
TWENTY-SIX
FOUR DAYS PASS. FOUR DAYS OF WAITING, holed up in the mazelike corridors of Paper House, speculating with the girls on the assassins and what must be happening outside the palace until there’s nothing new to discuss. Then, at lunch on the fifth day, Madam Himura tells us that the court has finally finished its interrogation of the attackers.
Just as Chenna predicted, there will be an execution.
The room goes quiet at the announcement. Zhen and Zhin swap dark looks, and Chenna quickly lifts one hand, forming the same prayer motion across her brow that I saw her make at the koyo party. Next to me, Aoki lets out a long exhale.
“Serves them right,” Blue says loudly. “Let the King show everyone what happens to those who oppose him.”
Mariko nods, though she stays mute, picking at her nails, fingers spread on the tabletop.
“The execution will take place at sundown tonight,” Madam Himura croaks. “Attendance is mandatory. You will return to your usual schedule the next day.”
I meet Wren’s warm-centered brown eyes across the table. I want to hear what she thinks, steal a moment of comfort from her words and her closeness. But Madam Himura sends us straight back to our rooms to begin yet another long sequence of preparations.
Usually, Lill has some freedom in what she dresses me in, provided she follows certain customs and expectations. But as she unfolds the robes I’m to wear to the execution, she tells me they were selected specifically by Madam Himura. “She was very strict about it,” Lill says. “For all the Mistresses.”
She doesn’t have to explain why she’s telling me this. As soon as I see the robes, I understand.
“It—it’s too cruel,” I say, almost whispering.
Lill avoids my eyes. “These are the King’s orders, Mistress.”
We don’t speak as she dresses me in the plain black robes. Black—not white. The very opposite, the very absence, of our kingdom’s mourning color.
It’s clear what the King’s message is. White is a color to be respected, and to be used for those we respect. Criminals don’t fall into that category. Instead we dress in black to demonstrate our indifference to the assassins’ suffering.
The thought that they’ll die looking out to this, a sea of night, doesn’t seem fair. Before leaving, I take an ivory ribbon from Lill’s box of silks and tie it round my wrist, making sure it’s hidden beneath my sleeve.
Our procession is somber as we make our way through the Outer Courts. There’s a heaviness about the palace this afternoon. Even the sky and trees seem gray, as though the smoldering air from the attack on the theater has settled over the whole of the palace, a veil of smoke. The streets are packed, but the only sounds are the dull treading of foot- and hoof-steps and the rustle of fabric, the metal chime of spirit-warding talismans, snatches of whispered conversations that the wind whips away.
When we get to Ceremony Court, my eyes widen at the sea of people filling the vast square. Everyone who lives at the palace must be here—there are thousands of humans and demons of all three castes. At the center of the court are a stage and a separate viewing platform for court members, headed by the King’s golden throne. The oryx carry us past the crowds, everything a whir of swirling ink-black robes. As soon as we arrive at the viewing platform, I go to Wren, pushing past jostling court officials craning for a better view.
She clasps my hand, low, so no one can see. Though she lets go a second later, she stays close. “Are you all right?”
I nod stiffly. “But I hate having to be here.”
“Me, too.” She takes something out of the fold of her robes just long enough to show it to me: a white flower, a tiny valley lily. Then she tucks it away. “It felt wrong,” she explains. “Coming here without something to pay my respects. Especially considering what happened in the tunnel.”
The sight of the flower sends a warm rush through my chest.
Carefully, I draw back my sleeve to reveal the ribbon at my wrist, and Wren’s face softens. She gives my fingers another squeeze.
It takes half an hour for the entirety of the palace to arrive, the King turning up last in an extravagant palanquin carried by eight oryx-demons. I don’t have a clear view of him through the thick crush of bodies as he settles on the throne, but even at this distance the sight of his curved horns makes the hairs on my arms lift. Somehow, I can tell he’s smiling.
Soon after, the carriages with the assassins arrive to the thunder of drumbeats. Each is pulled by a pair of muscled black horses and marked with silks of deep obsidian. They stop before the stage, the horses stamping, clouds of steam blowing from their nostrils. An expectant hush ripples through the crowd.
First, the executioners step out. The assassins follow, stumbling from the carriages, gold circles shackled to their necks like dog collars.
The skin at my wrists tingles. Their chains look similar to the ones the shaman put around my ankles and wrists when I was in isolation.
All around us, the court erupts in a roar. The drummers beat harder, stirring the frenzy. I don’t know whether the crowd is pretending to be excited for the King’s benefit; unlike at the koyo party, there is a mix of castes and positions here. But my stomach lurches anyway. The whole thing is like a performance, with the crowd willing participants. I thread my fingers through Wren’s. No one’s paying attention to us, their focus all on the stage, and I need her right now, need the familiar warmth of her hands to ground me, to calm my already frantic heart from spiraling so far out of control that it breaks free—and me with it.
I want to scream. Thrash. Run at the King and tear that cruel smile off his face.
Blank, beige-colored masks have been strapped over the assassins’ fac
es, curving creepily over their foreheads and noses to leave only the small lines of their mouths underneath. Another trick of this awful performance. Hide the faces of the people you’re about to kill, so they don’t seem human.
Then I think of the slaves at the koyo party. The woman on the bridge the night of the Unveiling Ceremony, her head caved in by a demon guard. Maybe it wouldn’t make a difference even if the masks were off. It seems that to most demons, being Paper caste already makes you less than human.
The executioners are three Moon caste demons. There is a gray-coated wolf-man; a hulking crocodile demon with leathery, russet-scaled skin; and the white fox female who escorted me to the King’s room that night. They must be the King’s personal guards. Dull light glints off their long armored overcoats as they lead the assassins to the stage. While the other two drop to their knees to face the King in silence, the assassin being led by the wolf struggles against his bindings. He’s shouting, lurching toward the throne. Even from here I can see the slash of red around the man’s throat from where the golden collar digs in. It must be agony, but he keeps rearing forward, screaming words I can’t make out over the braying crowd as the King regards him coolly.
The wolf soldier jerks the chain back. He slams his foot down on the man’s back, forcing him to the floor, before dragging him onto the stage. I get a view of the wolf demon’s face for the first time as he turns and my breath hitches.
It’s Wren’s wolf.
So that’s why he seemed familiar—the Unveiling Ceremony. He stood at the King’s side along with the fox and the crocodile demon.
I turn to Wren. “That’s him, isn’t it? The wolf you were with that night.” When she hesitates, I say, “Please. No more lies.”
Her lips part. Then she answers stiffly, “His name is Kenzo Ryu. Major Ryu. One of the King’s personal guards. He oversees all the royal armies and advises the King on military tactics.”
“And the other two?”
“The crocodile is General Ndeze. The white fox is General Naja. She’s the highest-ranking female in the kingdom.”
My brow furrows. “What about the Demon Queen?”
