“We were told to stick with you,” one of them said.
“There is nowhere for me to go on an island. If you’re worried that I’ll try to escape, don’t be. I would drown.”
The man shrugged and his companion agreed. Neither wished any part of women’s magic. Li thanked them when they permitted her to forage on her own, and left them by the rowboat. She hurried into the leafless forest. The herbs she needed were wilted from the cold. Fong had not questioned her even though he was well aware that winter’s touch had killed most growing things. But underground, the roots she needed to kill Fong’s baby thrived. It was not for nothing that she had spent all those days and nights with Madam Choi and Po, whose collective knowledge of medicinal and poisonous plants was unprecedented.
With a sharp knife, Li cut away at the woody tubers until she had three solid knots. She carried them to a glade and placed them on the ground. She drew a small iron pot from between the folds of her furs, and crouching, sparked a fire with a flint-stone amidst a clutch of leaves and twigs. She selected the juiciest of the three tubers, shaved it into fibrous curls, and dropped the shavings into the pot of boiling water. She repeated the task with the other two roots, all the while hoping that the smoke would not lure the sailors into the forest after her.
She fed the flame with dried wood and twigs until the pot foamed, and a harsh, fetid odour steamed in her face. From the smell and colour of it, the poison was ready, and she needed a moment for it to cool so that she could drink without scalding her tongue.
The brew was removed from the blaze and set on the half-frozen ground, the packed soil hissing as the iron touched the cold.
Li stirred the malodorous drink with a stick, cradled the pot to her lips and held her breath. A black shadow, amidst the flutter of wings interrupted her and she gasped, sputtering a little of the liquid from her mouth.
“Before you swallow, heed my words. I know of the prophecy that has led you to this place. But tell me: Do you really know who the Black Tortoise is?” The voice was Tao’s, and he had dropped from the drab sky like a giant bat, and now hovered where she sat.
The remainder of the liquid spewed out of her mouth. She rose, clenching the pot handle in her icy hands, and placed it against her distended belly. “What does it matter?” she asked, rubbing the side of the bowl into her furs where she could feel the baby moving. “If this one is dead, he cannot be the Black Warrior of the North.”
“He is still your child, Lotus Lily. You do not know the identity of the Black Tortoise. He could be Wu, your firstborn, or he could be the son of Fong.”
“But if Fong’s spawn is never born, it can’t be him. It could only be Chi Quan’s son, Wu.”
“And what if the true Black Warrior of the North resides in your belly? Who will save the Middle Kingdom from the invading hordes?” Tao smiled sadly. “What if that is not Wu’s destiny? You have yet to find him. He may be even now, tainted by the barbarian Esen. We do not know which path he will choose.”
Wu was little more than a baby. But he was strong-willed. He was far older in experience than he was in age. And talking to him, anyone would mistake him for an older boy in a very young body. “If he can, he will not choose to follow Esen,” Li said fiercely.
Tao studied her. His only concern was that she not murder an innocent. Li squeezed her eyes shut. Was she a murderess? Could she take the life of the unborn simply to further her first son’s destiny? Her head ached. “Please, Tao. Just take me away from here. I must find Wu. I don’t really want to harm this child, but I must find Wu.”
“I cannot take you anywhere. I am a hopping corpse.” He raised a withered hand that looked like skin over fleshless bone. “I can fly, but I can carry no burden lest we both plunge into the sea.”
Already, the iron bowl felt cold, and if she did not imbibe the deadly broth in the next few minutes, its potency would fail. The saliva rose in her mouth as she contemplated her choices, nausea filled her throat, and she could feel the baby stir. “I wish I had more courage,” she said bitterly. “I wish I was more like Madam Choi. She would know what to do.”
Something had changed in Tao’s piercing gaze. His eyes were no longer black as ink, but milky. “Yes, look into my face, Lotus Lily. See what you see. I am neither alive nor dead, but my body begins to rot. Soon my hair will turn to frost to match my eyes, and my skin will gleam virescent. You are afraid of me, aren’t you?”
Li felt her insides recoil, but outwardly she remained stoic.
“What makes you think you lack courage, Li? You stand here facing an undead man, and you do not run. Doesn’t that take courage? Madam Choi fears nothing because she does nothing that frightens her. She has been toughened by the realities of her existence. Nothing she does is hard for her. She turned her back on her rice farming family and married a pirate. Since the death of her roguish husband, she has taken up where he left off. All that she chooses to do is what she has already done. How can she be afraid when the outcome is known to her? She has seen the worst of life and death. It is only when one is afraid that one has courage.”
“I am very afraid,” Li whispered, swallowing dryly. “If I don’t kill the White Tiger’s spawn before he is born, he may kill my dear Wu.”
“Why should he do that?” Tao asked. “They will be brothers—if he is indeed a boy.”
“He is a boy. A fortune-teller has confirmed it.”
Li lowered her eyes to the cooling brew. “His father, Lao Hu Fong is not Chinese. He is a Manchurian under the service of the Empire.” Li suddenly glanced up at him. “How did you know I was here?”
“I told you Lotus Lily, I have been watching over you.”
“Why didn’t you show yourself sooner? Before this happened?” She slapped her stomach, and then regretted it as the baby kicked back.
“I cannot come and go as I please. I need nourishment. I cannot find that at sea. You were near enough to land that I could seek you this time.”
“But if you were watching me, you should have been watching Wu. He was taken by Esen to the lagoon where he was conceived. You could have gone there and protected him.”
“That was not my destiny.” He threw a hard look at the poisonous soup that Li still clutched to her chest. “What choice do you make?”
She followed his gaze with her own, and overturned the pot, allowing the ill smelling liquid to spill onto the fire—drowning it in a seething mist.
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“Things have changed, Lotus Lily,” Fong said. “The welfare of my own son must take precedence. You are weak and grow paler daily. I will take no chances with my boy. If you are correct and the Mongol Esen and the fox faerie still seek your demise, I must make certain that my son is born safe. We go to Manchuria, to the foothills where the mountain folk will keep you safe. I’ve had news that the Empire is at risk. The Manchus threaten the northeast border, while the Mongols scratch at the west. The Emperor is up to his eyeballs in war, and has no time to deal with a fugitive princess or a new son-in-law. Especially since that son-in-law is Manchurian. I must wait to see how the tide flows. Those hateful savages have tainted the Manchurian name, and if the Manchu threat is real, His Majesty might see me as a traitor or a spy simply because we hail from the same land. I will be slandered. His right-hand man, Military Governor Zheng Min and I have never seen eye to eye.”
“But you promised!” Li said, tears spiralling down her cheeks. “You promised to help me find Wu.” Li bit her lip to control any further outburst. She clasped her hands together to still their trembling. The baby kicked and she wanted to kick it back. How she regretted the course of action she had so ignorantly chosen. Fong was going to hole her up in a Manchurian cave to give birth on foreign dirt like a goat—with strange Manchurian peasant women for midwives!
Why had she listened to Tao? She should have followed her heart. Her heart was with Wu, Chi Quan’s son.
Fong’s eyes were on her and Li was careful not to give away her thoughts. If he suspected her rancour for his chil
d, he would imprison her until the deed was done—and his heir was born. Li gathered her composure to nod in mock compliance. “Of course. His Majesty cannot be trusted. But what makes you think your own people will harbour your pregnant wife? You say they shunned and persecuted you in your youth.”
“That was three hundred years ago. All those who remember the birth of the White Tiger are dead. If the Manchu forces are a true threat and have taken the easternmost wall, then the Manchurians will welcome the sign of the White Tiger.” Fong turned his hand palm-down to display the tattoo on the back of his hand. “Only a true Manchurian warrior can sire a White Tiger.”
Li shut her eyes. Her husband’s loyalties were dubious. If all of this were true and he could switch from one side to the other depending on who was winning, then he was no better than Jasmine.
A knock came at the cabin door.
“Enter,” Fong said.
The door slowly opened and a young seaman appeared on the threshold. “I have news, Supreme Admiral,” he said. “An Imperial messenger has sent word that a rebel warrior by the name of Zi Shicheng threatens to take down the Empire from within. Altan is at the Jiayuguan pass, flanking the desert sands, and the Manchus cover the east at Shanhaiguan.”
“What orders?” Fong demanded.
“To quell the pirate resurgence in the south. Much needed silver is being stolen by the rogues from transport junks. Silver that is needed to pay wages and arms for the war.”
“Where is the messenger?” Fong asked.
“Already gone. His Majesty needs him at home. A serpent boat took him back to his ship. But he left you this.” The seaman passed him a bamboo scroll, dense with Chinese characters. The admiral skimmed the message before following him out to the deck, leaving Li pummelling the air with her fists.
Was Admiral Lao Hu Fong trustworthy? And why did she care? She owed nothing to an empire that wanted her dead.
She spooned her hands to the huge burden that weighted her belly. She might not be able to act right now, but there was nothing wrong with her ears. She had heard rumours among the officers of Fong’s ship that China was degenerating into chaos. Disloyalty and incompetence were the inevitable result. She had heard of this rebel Zi Shicheng. He had started out a loyal man, but as the walled garrisons of the frontier became depleted, his troops grew weary of fighting a losing battle. Now his army marched east toward the capital, and with only one man to guard every few miles, the defense of the northeast at the critical junction of Shanhaiguan depended on one great general. That general, Li knew, was Supreme Brigade General Chi Quan.
Li had heard of Quan’s latest promotion that had come through his military prowess at the frontier walls and through the abrupt departure of some of the Ming army’s most senior commanders. When the Manchus began hostilities on Ming forces in the northeast, they attacked the great garrisoned loop over the north of Shenyang before moving south to exchange arrows at the Yalu River. The Manchus were picking off the remote border garrisons one by one and reclaiming what they insisted was Manchu land. Li clutched her fists in tight balls and squeezed them. There was no doubt the Manchu threat was real.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Chinese Rebel
Zi Shicheng was only one of many defectors that were shrinking the Ming army in the Northeast. He had seen it with his own eyes. After years of faithful service, it seemed the Forbidden City had forgotten him and his troops. When the fort at Fushu fell, he had bolted. There was no deflecting the Manchu warriors who were superior horsemen and bowmen. No longer did the Tower for Suppressing the North, nor the Gate at Which the Border Tribes Come to Pay Homage stand. Nothing remained but broken bodies and blood, and rotting earth ramparts. He had tried seeking refuge further south.
He glared up at the night sky—a fist raised to the Pole Star—and openly denounced the Emperor. His requests had not been answered. Frozen, wet and abandoned, the morale of his troops had plummeted. The frontline of defense was manned by sentinels numbering in the thousands, but as the men wearied and died from cold, starvation, disease and battle, few came to replace them—and more defected. The fortresses dotting the Northeast stretch, west of the Yalu River were deserted. Those unfortunate enough to be stationed beyond the reach of these feeble shelters did guard duty exposed on stout towers built of solid earth.
Zi Shicheng was one of these unfortunates. This last spell of duty had him and his troops still in the frigid frontier with the weak promise of padded trousers, fur coats and boots. But had any of these items materialized? No. His men huddled in mouldy, ill-fitting clothes, their shoes worn through the soles, their hands unprotected, so that every man bemoaned the sting of frostbite. The Emperor’s wall builders had not reached the Sino-Manchurian border and no refurbishment had taken place. The walls were disintegrating with each attack and suffered from the battering of wind and rain. For years, this neglected part of the Empire had been prey for the Manchus. They had systematically broken down the barrier, stripping bricks and wood for their own use. The moats were filling in with wind-blown sand. Forts were missing their gates, and it was near impossible to move on the ramparts of the wall. Those who tried often slipped and were left dangling, their feet swinging into oblivion.
“Commander,” a soldier whispered, nodding past the remnants of a stone battlement. “Manchu warriors to the east.”
“I know.” Zi Shicheng did not dare raise the alarm with smoke signals or cannon fire. The towers were so vulnerable that cooperation was more appealing than resistance. He swung an arm to a crumbling rampart and hurled his body after it to land on the precipitous surface. He rose to his half-soled, worn-booted feet, stalwart, facing the horsemen who marched cavalierly toward the gate. Above it, legs braced apart and hands on his hips, he stood with weapons loose by his side—to show the approaching legion that he meant to barter, not fight.
“We intend to pass,” the Manchu general called out. “If you do not comply, I will deploy my army to fight, and you and all of your men will die.”
“If we fight,” the rebel said, “some of your men will also die. Although you outnumber us in manpower and in armament, I think you will agree that we need lose none of our soldiers? All we ask for your free passage is a share of your food and drink, and any furs you can spare.”
The general glanced at the lacerated, ragtag mess of Ming soldiers at the wall and laughed. “So be it. We feast and drink tonight.”
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“Majesty,” Zheng Min said. “I think you will want to hear what the Mongol has to say.”
“Who is this filthy barbarian and what does he want with me. All of the Middle Kingdom is in jeopardy and you bring a savage and his boy into my presence?” The Emperor twisted his head in a frantic attempt to search for his advisors. “Where is Jasmine?”
Esen glared at the military governor in annoyance. “No one has seen the lady in many—” Zheng Min stopped himself just in time. His Majesty was not himself, and had spells of forgetfulness that made him oblivious to Jasmine’s long absence. But if he crossed his liege on a bad day, it could mean his head. The Emperor still had that much power. Zheng Min shunted the Mongol warlord and the boy toward the door, and whispered, “Wait in the audience hall. His Highness will see you shortly.”
The boy looked strangely familiar and yet Zheng Min was sure he had never seen him before. But if what the warlord claimed was true, then that explained all. “Sire,” he said, when the two had left. “You must listen to the barbarian. He may have a way for you to save face.”
The Ming economy was near collapse. A Dutch blockade, a Spanish clampdown on exports of Acapulcan silver, and political turmoil in Indonesia, making the seaways treacherous had drastically reduced the flow of silver to the East. The theft of silver by pirates off the South Coast compounded the problem, and had virtually halted the export and import of goods from the Empire. “The peasants refuse to be conscripted to replace the troops decimated at the frontier,” Zheng Min said. “They would rather die than f
ight because their crops will fail without them. And their crops are failing anyway, because they can’t afford the taxes.”
“So what do you expect me to do about it? They must be taxed. How do you think you get your mighty wage if not by taxes?”
Military Governor Zheng Min had better watch his step because if he pushed too far, he could end up with his head on the end of a pike. “The Mongol Esen has a gemstone that can see military strategies of our enemies. He claims that it is the property of your banished warlock, Master Yun.” He decided to omit Esen’s claim that the boy was His Majesty’s grandson. If he had a grandson, he would have an heir. And the only heir that Zheng Min wished for His Highness was himself.
“Yes, I remember he used to wear such a gemstone, a ring. Where is he now? Bring him to me.”
“No one knows where the old man is. Jasmine has gone to seek him.”
“She has been gone long,” he said, remembering now that years had passed without the fox faerie by his side. Too long, Zheng Min thought, feeling the tug of lust at his groin. “All right,” His Majesty said. “Send in the Mongol. Let me see this ring.”
The military governor went to the audience hall and beckoned the Mongol to wait at the door while he took the boy aside and dropped to one knee. “Do you know who I am, boy?”
The frightened child shook his head.
“Do you know who you are?”
“I am Wu,” he said. “Son of Li.”
“Li is your mother? Tell me: what else do you know about her?”
“She is a princess. My great grandfather is a warlock and my father is the famous general, Chi Quan, though I have never met him.”
Zheng Min’s heart raced—Quan’s son? He took the boy by the chin and looked into his eyes. The steely gaze was there. The boy wasn’t lying. Li was Lotus Lily? That meant she was alive and Quan was her rescuer—but how to prove it? If he could prove it, that would be the end of Quan’s career. “You have never met your father?”
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