Kingdom of the Blazing Phoenix

by Julie C. Dao

  “We learn about ourselves when we learn about others,” Jade said. “We respect different ways of life as food, traditions, and storytelling are shared across borders.”

  “And won’t it be a gesture of courtesy and respect, when you are Empress, to speak to the ministers of Kamatsu in their own language rather than the common tongue?” Amah grinned at her, and Jade couldn’t help the sinking feeling in her stomach at the thought of entertaining important diplomats. “Now, the kingdoms of Feng Lu are separate and distinct, but not isolated. They are joined by not only the empire, but a shared history. Explain.”

  Jade resisted the powerful urge to peer out the window again. “The kingdoms were created by the Dragon Lords, gods who descended from the heavens many ages ago. Each god chose one land: the seas of Kamatsu, the mountains of Dagovad, the Sacred Grasslands, and the deserts of Surjalana. But the greatest of the gods, the Dragon King, chose the forests.”

  At that moment, Auntie Ang appeared at the door, and her stunned expression sent Jade straight to the window. The chamber Jade and Amah shared faced the gates, where a moment ago, there had been nothing. Now there were twenty men, some on horseback, some hoisting a palanquin on their shoulders, and a few carrying the Emperor’s banners. They stood in an eerie, perfect silence, as though they had materialized from the forest mists.

  “They’ve come for us,” Jade said, swallowing hard. Her identity could no longer be a secret from the monks or anyone else, not with this grand procession. “We’d better bring our belongings out. Auntie Ang, would you mind notifying the abbess?”

  The monk stood for a moment, her mouth moving wordlessly, before hurrying away.

  “There’s no hiding who you are now,” Amah said, chuckling. Then she frowned at the window. “These men can’t expect you to depart immediately, without any supper.”

  “I packed plenty of food for us earlier,” Jade reassured her. Somehow, she didn’t think these soldiers would be willing to delay, not with the Empress waiting.

  The men stood like rigid statues, dressed head to toe in black metal armor that appeared to have been wrought in smoke. Like Xifeng’s messenger, they wore black cloth over their faces that covered all but their eyes. Having spent a lifetime among women, Jade was struck by how impossibly large and imposing they seemed. She recognized the Empress’s symbol upon their chests, but the flags they bore had the true Imperial Seal: a dragon rampant, holding a forest in its talons.

  “This is how royalty travels, then, is it?” Jade said weakly.

  “Get used to it,” Amah told her.

  “They must work for the Empress only, if they’re wearing her seal.”

  “I think we’ll find that anyone in His Majesty’s employ must be in Her Majesty’s first.”

  When they went outside, Abbess Lin was already there with the other monks, speaking to the leader of the soldiers. He towered over her like a great black tree, his icy gaze shifting to Jade as she approached. His body snapped into a sharp bow, which the soldiers behind him echoed as though a single giant hand had bent them all at the spine.

  Jade stopped in her tracks, overwhelmed by the show of respect. I’m just a girl in faded robes, she thought, and then she glanced at Amah, whose arched brows told her, You are a princess. The soldiers straightened, and a taut silence stretched out in which they and the monks watched her. She realized with a start that they were waiting for her to speak first.

  “Welcome,” she said, her voice shaking. She cleared her throat and forced herself to hold her head high. “Thank you for coming to escort me to the Imperial Palace.”

  The leader of the soldiers addressed Jade in an odd, clipped voice, as though he did not often speak. “It is our privilege to see you safely through the Great Forest, Your Highness. We intend to bring you before Empress Xifeng in two weeks’ time.” He gestured to the palanquin, which was made of ivory and covered with heavy scarlet brocade. “Would you step inside?”

  Before Jade could respond, approaching hoofbeats thundered, and a square-shouldered figure on a stout gray pony burst out of the forest. The newcomer broke through the line of stiff soldiers and pulled to a stop beside the leader, who scowled at the interruption.

  “Thought you’d lost me, did you?” the rider said breathlessly, tugging down warm cloth wrappings to reveal the broad, pink-cheeked features of a young woman. A knot of coarse black hair emerged next, above alert eyes that went straight to Amah. “Hello, Grandmother.”

  “Wren? How . . . when . . .” Amah sputtered. “You should be in the palace kitchens, not gallivanting around the bandit-ridden forest. What are you doing here, reckless girl?”

  “When I heard the princess was coming home, I asked if I could join the retinue to bring you back. Not that it mattered whether I got permission. They refused, and I still came.” Wren slid to the ground, scanning Jade from head to toe before she gave a halfhearted bow. “Your Highness,” she added, her familiar manner freezing into chilly formality.

  Jade gave her a friendly nod. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Amah has mentioned you often and shown me all your messages over the years. And please call me Jade.”

  “Thank you . . . Your Highness.” The young woman kept her eyes down, as was proper, but they flickered up as she used the title. If Jade hadn’t known better, she might have called it a glare. She turned to Amah for help, wondering if Wren felt awkward in her presence.

  “Headstrong and disobedient, just like your father when he was alive,” the old woman rebuked her granddaughter. “You traveled for two weeks alone with these men for what?”

  “To see you, of course, for the first time in fifteen years. I was only five when you left.” Wren reached for Amah’s hand, and the nursemaid gave it to her with a grudging smile. “And I didn’t travel with these men. They wouldn’t let me. This one”—Wren indicated the leader with a careless gesture—“thought they could easily lose me.”

  Amah laid her free hand on Jade’s shoulder, and Wren’s eyes followed the movement. “I will scold you properly later,” the old woman said. “We shouldn’t stand too long in the cold.”

  The time had come.

  Jade turned, her dread as heavy as iron, and looked into the gentle faces of the monks as they stood in a solemn line with their hands clasped. She wondered if she would ever again see these beloved women who had been her friends and teachers. They had welcomed her into their lives, a wayward, unwanted girl, and had taught her all they knew of kindness and compassion. She bowed low to each, murmuring farewell.

  But when she stood before Abbess Lin, the woman shook her head. “You do not bow to me, Imperial Princess.” She touched Jade’s forehead in a sign of quiet well-wishing.

  “Thank you,” Jade whispered, and then she took in the monastery one last time.

  Her gaze swept over everything she had loved: the vegetable garden she helped tend in the summer, the herb room where she and Auntie Tan had dried plants for medicine and tea, the stream in which she had learned to swim. She had left pieces of herself here, and it was slightly comforting to think the monastery might not soon forget her because of it.

  She wiped her wet eyes. “I’m ready, Amah.”

  Wren returned to her horse as Jade and Amah walked through the line of soldiers. Jade felt a cold, trickling dread being this close to them. A strange smell like fire and damp soil emanated from their smoky armor, and they stood so still, they did not resemble real men at all. One of them moved stiffly to hold the brocade curtain so she could step inside the palanquin.

  After years of living in stark austerity, the vessel was a vision of richness. It was made of rosewood, with a nest of satin cushions and fur blankets on the wide seat to make their journey comfortable. A window faced the door, also covered by heavy brocade to keep out the chill.

  Amah leaned against the pillows, looking content against her own will. The faint light illuminated each of her li
nes and wrinkles, and Jade thought, with a pang, that her nursemaid had grown old. The two-week journey in cold, cramped quarters would be an ordeal for her. Jade wrapped a soft blanket around the older woman, tucking the ends in, making sure her feet were covered.

  “Thank you, little mouse,” Amah said wearily, and for once, Jade did not take offense at the silly nickname. She only settled next to her nursemaid as the door shut, surrounding them with dark and quiet, like a cocoon of cushions. It was much warmer than she had expected.

  The palanquin shifted as the soldiers heaved it onto their shoulders, then began moving, and Jade peered out the window as they passed through the gates. Beyond the soldiers and their coal-black horses, the monks bowed low in farewell. Jade watched as the monastery and the women—her home, her family—grew smaller and smaller until they vanished.

  And then they were out into the world, and the Great Forest swallowed them whole.

  The palanquin’s rocking motion made Jade’s stomach uneasy at first. She spent the first few days of travel with her nose out the window, her illness soothed by the icy wind. But by midweek, the side-to-side sway felt familiar and almost comforting, and many times she found herself growing sleepy in the middle of a conversation with Amah.

  The retinue stopped three times a day so she and Amah could tend to their bodies’ needs and stretch their legs, but Jade sensed that if the soldiers had their way, they wouldn’t stop at all. The men fed and watered their horses regularly, but she had yet to see them eat or rest themselves. As it was, she and Amah found the weather so cold and the men so rigid and silent that they took no more time than was needed before hurrying back into the palanquin.

  So far, Wren had managed to keep up with the soldiers’ fearsome pace. She sometimes joined Jade and Amah when they stepped out for air, and though her manners were above reproach, they were not entirely respectful. More than once, Jade returned to see her joking with Amah, only to resume her coldness when Jade tried to join in.

  Jade discovered the reason about five days into their journey. Amah had gone off to relieve herself, and Jade was rummaging through their packed food. She took out a large, cold steamed bun for herself, then began breaking a second bun into small, bite-sized chunks.

  “Why are you doing that? Your Highness?” Wren asked, watching her. At twenty, she was tall and stocky, with strong shoulders and calloused hands, and might have passed for a young soldier in armor if she’d had the rigidity of the Empress’s men. Jade found it easy to imagine her flouting authority to embark on a dangerous journey through the Great Forest.

  “It’s for Amah. She’s been having trouble with her teeth and can’t chew bigger pieces.”

  “You don’t have to do that—I’m here now and she’s my grandmother. I didn’t even know about her teeth.” Wren’s lips thinned. “I should have been with her all these years to care for her. Anyway, shouldn’t princesses eat and sleep in different quarters from their servants?”

  “Amah isn’t my servant,” Jade said, shocked. “And I’ve shared meals and a room with her my whole life.”

  The older girl let out a breath through her nose. “How fortunate to have had someone care for you who doesn’t even share your blood. Your Highness.” She moved away when she heard Amah’s slippers crunching toward them.

  Jade climbed into the palanquin after Amah, torn between anger and pity. It wasn’t her fault Wren had decided to hate her for something she couldn’t control. But . . . could she have controlled it? Could she, at any point, have said, Amah, you should be with your orphaned grandchild and not me?

  As Jade watched the old woman chew tenderly on the torn-up bun, her wispy white hair a cloud around her temples, she knew she never would have. Amah was her guardian, protector, and last link to Lihua. She had always made Jade laugh when she was sad, wrapped her in blankets when she was cold, and healed her hurts with a kiss. She had stepped into Lihua’s place, and Jade would never have given that up—even it was the right thing to do.

  But who, selfish thing, cared for Wren?

  “Will Wren be all right, riding in the cold like that for another week?” she asked Amah.

  “She’ll be fine—she seems as hearty as a young oak,” the old woman said proudly. “Her mother was a weak, dainty thing, but Wren’s got my son’s strength and stubbornness.”

  Jade didn’t doubt that Wren thought her a weak, dainty thing. Flushing, she remembered how Wren had watched her lean against a tree a few days ago, sickened by travel. She had probably been repulsed by the sight of a pampered girl, ill despite sitting against cushions, while Wren herself rode in the winter air night after night at a breakneck pace just to keep up.

  She peered out at the canopy of silver branches against the evening sky. Almost a week of uneventful travel and remembering how Empress Lihua had loved these trees made her feel less afraid of the forest. “Did you ever regret being with me instead of with Wren?”

  Amah’s eyebrows touched her hairline. “What a question, little mouse. It was my duty to be with you. A vow to your mother is never given lightly. But tell me,” she said, patting Jade’s crestfallen face, “why should duty and love be two different things? I have loved you like my own, as I did your mother before you, and her mother. I have seen you all grow into women.”

  “But we were always other people’s children,” Jade whispered.

  “My children, too. Family is not only defined by blood.”

  The palanquin shifted as the soldiers lifted it onto their shoulders once more. “It doesn’t feel right, being carried about,” Jade said. “I wish my stepmother had sent horses for us instead.”

  “If she had, we’d likely arrive in time for your nineteenth birthday instead of your eighteenth,” Amah joked. “Now, enough chatter. Where did we leave off in our lessons?”

  Jade couldn’t help smiling. Even this far from the monastery, the nursemaid was bent on keeping up her schooling. “The gods descended to create Feng Lu. To honor their friendship, they each placed a treasure of their land in a shrine in the Mountains of Enlightenment.”

  “But the friendship didn’t last,” Amah prompted her.

  “No,” Jade agreed. “The god of Surjalana, the desert kingdom, resented the Dragon King and shattered their alliance with his jealousy. They removed their relics and returned to the heavens, leaving behind five floundering kingdoms. Eventually, the Great Forest conquered the other lands and formed an empire, naming its ruler Emperor of Feng Lu.”

  The thought of an empire ruled by her family had always felt deeply uncomfortable. She had said as much to Amah and the elder once, and they had smiled indulgently at her idealistic concept of free kingdoms linked by trade and friendship.

  “But not every land wishes to belong to the empire,” Jade went on. “Kamatsu has made many bids for independence from Emperor Jun.”

  “Good. Why won’t he release them?”

  “Power. The more kingdoms in his control, the longer the reach of his arm.”

  “Perhaps you ought to say her control and her arm,” Amah said darkly. “After all, Xifeng is the one pulling Feng Lu’s strings. The continent is falling apart under her rule, and Kamatsu’s increasingly aggressive attempts to leave are evidence of that. It won’t be long before their sentiments spread to the other kingdoms, if they haven’t already.”

  “And this is the empire I’m meant to inherit,” Jade said quietly.

  Long after her nursemaid had fallen asleep, she sat awake thinking about Xifeng. Her stepmother sounded like a fiend, but she couldn’t help feeling curious about the woman who had risen from peasant to Empress at the age of eighteen. No one, Jade reflected, did that without brains, resourcefulness, and a will of iron. She wondered if Xifeng had ever felt uncertain and hopelessly out of her depth, as Jade did. It was difficult to imagine.

  Perhaps I’ll ask her for advice.

  The thought was so ridiculous
that she settled against the cushions, laughing softly so as not to wake Amah, and allowed herself to be lulled into slumber as well. And if she dreamed at all—about the loving mother she had lost, the father who had discarded her, or the stepmother who hoped to claim her—she did not remember any of it.

  * * *

  • • •

  Jade knew two things about herself: she had always been afraid and fought hard against it, and she had always hated Amah’s pet name for her, little mouse, because it suggested timidity.

  At six, determined to conquer her fear of the dark, she had sat in the monastery kitchen for an entire sleepless night. At eleven, frustrated by her terror of water, she had begged Auntie Tan to teach her how to swim. At fourteen, she had let a child put a harmless garden snake in her hands. It hadn’t changed her mind about serpents, but at least she had met the fear head-on.

  Now, with the palace only two days away, Jade decided it was time to face another fear: approaching one of the soldiers. He stood motionless, blank eyes staring, and his eerie manner almost made her return to the palanquin at once, but she forced herself forward. Besides, they weren’t alone: Amah sat eating nearby while Wren did some sort of strange exercise in a tree. She hung by her fingers from a thick branch, then bent her arms and lifted her body until her chin was at the level of the branch, repeating the motion over and over.

  She wasn’t afraid of the soldiers, Jade thought enviously, or anything at all. Courage seemed to come easily to everyone else. She squared her shoulders and went up to the soldier. “Excuse me, how long will it take to arrive at the palace once we’re in the Imperial City?”

  The odd smell of smoke and soil rose from the soldier as he spoke. “Half an hour, Your Highness. But our orders are to take you to a teahouse first.”

  “Why?” Jade crossed her arms, hoping she gave the impression of being at ease.