by Mimi Yu
The bigger man, Soldier Wailun, crossed the room in two strides and unceremoniously dumped his injured companion into the chair.
“Ay!” yelped Soldier Lim, catching himself on one of the chair’s carved arms. “My leg!”
“Suck it up,” sneered the larger man, hoisting himself atop the kitchen table. He used one massive arm to plow a clearing in the clutter of herbs and jars, then reclined as though he were on a bed. He punctuated the movement with a guttural groan of relief so loud and vulgar it reminded Nok of the time he’d seen the swollen belly of a long-dead raccoon burst, sputtering forth stinking gas and bits of gut.
Noting his gaze, Soldier Wailun leered and said, “We’ve been traveling all night and morning, boy. I deserve to relax.”
Nok went to Omair’s side. He watched as the old man cut the soldier’s pant leg to reveal unnaturally pallid skin, the color of a fish’s belly, crusted rust-brown with dried blood. Lim let out a shuddering hiss.
Nok looked away. Not because he was squeamish; he had seen far worse. He didn’t look because the sight would have sent a pang of sympathy through him, and he didn’t want to feel sympathy for the Hu or the Hana. Especially not a soldier.
Omair turned to Soldier Wailun, still lounging atop the table. “I need your help. Can you hold Soldier Lim still while I sew the wound closed?”
Nok heated a needle over the open fire before handing it to Omair, along with the thread. After he located the salve and stood with the jar in his hand, he saw Wailun staring hard at him.
The man sat up, propping up the bulk of his body with his elbows. “Where’s that boy from? He don’t look a thing like you; can’t be yours.”
“Doesn’t he?” Omair smiled quizzically at him. “Well, he is. Our family is from Ungmar, a little farming village just beyond the Southwood, near the foothills of the Gongdun Peaks. Nok, where is that salve?”
Soldier Wailun pulled at a leather strap across his chest until the water bladder attached to it emerged over one massive shoulder. He ripped the stopper from the bladder with his teeth and took a short, hard swig. “Southerners, eh? He looks an awful lot like the slipskins we see in the labor camps up north.”
Thud. Nok scrambled after the dropped jar of salve. It rolled across the floor, the glass mercifully unbroken. His neck reddened, even as he caught the jar and handed it to Omair.
“How is everything going on the front?” Omair asked the soldiers lightly.
Soldier Wailun snorted. “Who knows. Haven’t been there in weeks. When I was, my job was rounding up stray slipskins for the camps. Rumor is some of them can still caul, so we were ordered to kill every animal we saw on sight, even if it was just a marmot. Made for strange hunting—and even stranger eating.” He laughed raucously.
Nok froze. Don’t do anything stupid, he told himself. In any case, what the soldier had suggested wasn’t even possible. Most Gifted lost their caul in death, returning to their human forms.
Most of them.
“It must be harder up there now, without Commander Li—that is, Emperor Set,” piped in Soldier Lim. “He knew how to run things. We never would have been able to convince the Ohmuni to surrender and relocate without him.”
“The Ohmuni?” Nok blurted.
Soldier Lim scarcely spared him a glance. “The last slipskin tribe still intact—they took on the form of these little yellow deer. Easy enough to kill one at a time, but hard to eliminate. They kept hiding in this chain of caves …”
Nok knew who the Ohmuni were—he’d spent enough sleepless nights thinking on the irony that a clan of pacifists with herbivore cauls were the last surviving Gifted Kith, when warrior stock like the wolves of the Ashina and the red bears of the Varrok had long since been massacred.
“Anyhow,” Soldier Lim continued, “I liked serving under Commander Li. He will make a fine emperor.”
“Better than that arrogant Girl King, that’s for sure,” snorted Soldier Wailun. “At any rate, it’s about time we Hana retook the throne. I tell you, things were better back when we had the reins.” He looked Omair up and down for a long moment. “Isn’t that right, old man?”
Omair only smiled blandly. “I will administer the poppy tears now,” he announced to Soldier Lim.
He fished inside his robes, extracting a small glass bottle strung around his neck by a leather thong. From the bottle he gingerly tapped three drops of milky-white liquid into a cup of tea. Then he proffered the cup to Soldier Lim.
Soldier Lim licked his lips, then tipped the steaming contents of the cup down his throat. He shook loose the last drops at the bottom of the cup before handing the empty vessel back.
“Just rest,” Omair told him. “I will begin in a moment.”
Soldier Wailun stared with his sharp, mean eyes. “You sure you two ain’t got some northern blood in you? You look it.”
Omair smiled. “Do you think? Well, who can know! Perhaps long ago our ancestors came from the North. Blood is longer than memory, as they say.”
The soldier grunted doubtfully as though he hadn’t heard that expression before.
Omair began stitching up Soldier Lim’s leg while the man lolled his head against the back of the chair, nearly chewing a hole in his bottom lip to stifle a scream of pain. The poppy tears must have been working; there’d be no stifling anything if they weren’t.
Nok could feel Soldier Wailun track his movements as he crossed the room. He knew this soldier’s type: a natural bully. Stupid and uncurious, but with a sharp nose for weakness in others. Show any, and out his claws would come.
Everything in Nok wanted to flee, but to do so would only arouse more attention. He settled for scooping a basket of mint from the table and sitting as far away as he could—not far enough, the room was so small, and the soldiers so big—to separate leaves from stems.
“Pretty herbs,” the soldier sneered. Nok gave a noncommittal grunt and went about his work, trying to quell his growing panic. The man was bored, and he wanted something to torment.
“What kind of answer is that, boy?” The solider sat up, knocking over a glass bottle and sending it skittering across the table. It hesitated when it reached the edge, then tumbled to the ground and continued its sad roll until it hit the wall. “Don’t you know how to address your betters?”
“Sorry,” Nok muttered, still plucking at the mint leaves, their sharp sweet scent now turning his stomach. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Omair had stopped stitching Soldier Lim.
“Sorry, sir,” the soldier corrected him with a sneer. “And look at me when I talk to you, boy.”
Nok raised his eyes to meet the soldier’s. Disappear. Disappear. Disappear, he willed himself. He could do it; drain the fear from his gaze. Make his dark eyes two black corridors leading nowhere.
“Insolent little shit, aren’t you?” Wailun demanded, sliding his bulk off the table. His feet hit the floor with a thud, the metal ornamentation on his boots rattling. Nok clutched the mint so hard he could feel its crushed leaves leaking wet inside his fist.
“Answer me when I speak to you.” The soldier drew up dangerously close. He was quick for such a big man; in a blink his arm struck out and grabbed Nok by the collar, lifting him clean off the chair and pinning him against the wall behind it. Nok’s feet scrabbled for purchase against the seat, but only the toes of his boots reached.
Disappear. Disappear. But his thoughts were laced with panic. He drew in a ragged breath and his whole world was drowned in the reek of Soldier Wailun’s hot, sour breath, and the mint, pulverized in his own fist.
The soldier laughed and slammed him against the wall. His head took the brunt of the blow and a shower of stars rained in Nok’s eyes. The big man’s fist was pressed even tighter against him now, crushing his windpipe.
“Sir!” Omair’s voice filtered in through the haze of his fear. “Please! He meant no disrespect. Please, sir! Soldier Lim needs calm and quiet while I sew his leg.”
High-pitched laughter echoed through the
little room. Soldier Wailun’s head whipped around at the sound. His grip on Nok’s collar loosened enough that the boy could turn, too.
Soldier Lim was dissolving into giggles in his chair. “Sew my leg! I’m not a blanket,” he snorted convulsively. The poppy tears. Usually it just made patients sleepy, but sometimes …
Soldier Lim’s giggles continued, and Soldier Wailun joined in with a harsh belly laugh. “Calm and quiet, eh? I think old Lim’s doing just fine, aren’t you, Lim?”
Soldier Lim grinned and nodded, then nodded again, then again, and suddenly his head slumped down to his chest and he was snoring. Soldier Wailun snorted, then turned back to Nok, pressed his fist harder against his throat.
“See? My friend agrees with me. Everything’s good, isn’t it, boy?”
He seemed to want an answer, so Nok choked out a sound that he hoped read as affirmative.
Behind the soldier’s massive bulk, Omair was staring. The old man’s eyes read fear and guilt. Grief. Involuntary tears filled Nok’s own as he struggled to breathe.
Then, abruptly, the hand at Nok’s throat was gone. He tumbled down, his tailbone taking the brunt of the fall. A keening sound filled the room; it took Nok a moment to realize it was his own wheezing as he struggled to pull air back into his lungs.
When his vision stopped swimming, he saw Soldier Wailun standing over him, his massive bulk silhouetted by the overhead light. A memory came to him, and he could smell the stench of the labor camp’s sickroom, a soldier leaning in to wrench his sister away …
“Please,” Nok heard Omair try again. “He’s a good boy …”
Soldier Wailun grinned. “He’s a good boy, is he? He’s a weak boy. A pretty boy. Is that what you keep him around for, old man?” There was something new in his voice—some new, rabid thought that filled Nok with fresh dread.
The man’s enormous hand was on him again, dragging him up by the hair. Nok’s scalp screamed in pain. “Such a pretty boy. Such long eyelashes … and a mouth like a girl’s.”
“Sir!” Omair’s voice was close now. He must’ve put a hand on Soldier Wailun because there was a jerk of movement, and Omair went flying across the room into the kitchen table, herbs and bottles toppling to the floor in his wake.
Nok was pushed against the wall again, this time face forward, his cheek slamming against the wood hard enough to bruise. He heard Omair cry out behind him, and Soldier Wailun unhooking his belt buckle. The click seemed to echo, the moment dragging on for longer than it possibly could. Nok had heard of soldiers abusing villagers in this way, usually women and young children, but sometimes …
Disappear. Disappear. Feel nothing. The words hammered in his chest, quick and brutal.
Soldier Wailun’s grip on his shoulder went slack. Nok looked up and saw the arrow, like a black flower sprouting from the big man’s throat. A single, orderly drop of blood dangled from its point, gleaming bright as a ruby.
Nok scrambled to avoid the man’s body as it slumped against the wall. The arrow dragged through the wood, its head snapping clean off as Soldier Wailun crashed to the floor.
Behind where he had stood, the princess was still and languid as a panther, another arrow already nocked in her bow. Her copper eyes were flinty and cool as they tracked the fall of Solider Wailun’s body.
“Go. Now.” Omair’s voice broke the silence, followed by a ragged snore from the still-prone Soldier Lim. “You must go.”
“He’s still alive.” The princess’s voice was close enough to startle; she stood over Soldier Wailun’s body, toeing coolly at his ribs with her booted foot. Nok saw it was true. The soldier’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly, filling with dark lifeblood.
“I had to get him in the throat,” she said. “If I aimed for the head but didn’t kill him straight off he might’ve screamed.”
She pulled a knife from her boot and without ceremony, plunged its sharp blade through the man’s temple.
It took some effort to pry the knife back out; the princess’s face screwed up in disgust as blood slickened her fingers. When the blade was finally free, she wiped it clean against the dead man’s tunic. Nok could see her hands were trembling. Perhaps she felt his stare, because she looked up to meet it. “I would do it again,” she said ferociously. “He wasn’t a true soldier.”
“I think he was,” Nok choked out.
“You must go.” Omair was beside them now, shoving a full rucksack and small, densely weighted purse into Nok’s hands. “Go. There is an old map of the known gates to Yunis in the purse. Guard it with your life. Now, before the others return—go!”
He felt like he was fighting to emerge from a dream. “What of you?” he managed to say, grabbing Omair’s hand. Omair just shook his head. Nok’s stomach dropped. “You have to come with us.”
“I’m an old man with ruined knees, I’ll only slow you down,” Omair said. “Listen to me … take one of the soldiers’ horses and ride for the North. Find Yunis. Don’t trust anyone. Protect her. Protect one another.”
“I’m not leaving you,” Nok hissed, clutching at Omair’s robes. A handful of pulped mint fell from his hands as he did so; he’d been holding it this whole time. The scent filled the room and his stomach lurched.
“You must. For the good of all.” The old man kissed him fiercely on the forehead. “Go.”
Nok felt oddly calm as Lu took the rucksack from him and led him out the back door. It was only when they crouched behind a scraggly bush to observe the soldiers’ positions that he realized she was clutching his hand in her own.
“They’re lounging below, eating,” she whispered. “Horses are loose, grazing.”
Nok nodded numbly. We’re leaving Omair behind, he thought. This is wrong. This is all wrong.
“It’s been awhile since I’ve ridden a horse, but as I recall it’s not all that different from an elk,” the princess muttered. How could she be thinking about that when they were leaving Omair behind? Oh gods, and with a dead soldier.
“They’ll kill him,” Nok whispered. “They’ll think he murdered that … that soldier and they’ll arrest him and—”
The princess’s hand clapped over his mouth, sudden and warm. “Shh!” He opened his mouth against her palm to object, but then he heard it, too: the low mumble of approaching voices.
“… taking a long time …,” one of them grumbled as the other knocked at Omair’s door. Then knocked again.
The princess removed her hand from Nok’s mouth. “If you go back now, we die. Don’t waste Omair’s sacrifice. This is our only chance.”
You have a chance to do something with that life. To help change the course of the empire.
Omair’s words came back to him like a command.
The princess stared at him with wide, solemn eyes. Nok nodded, just once.
A chance.
It should have been funny, how easily they were able to steal over the far edge of the hill and lure one of the Hana warhorses toward them with a few well-chosen apples from the tree they were hiding against. Nok thought he might never laugh again.
“We just need another …”
“Another what?” Nok asked.
“Another horse,” she said as though he were quite stupid. “One for me and one for you.”
“I can’t ride!”
The horse they had recruited huffed against the princess’s palm as she reached out to stroke it. Then it nosed at the rucksack on her back, as though prying for more apples. It reminded Nok of …
“Bo,” he whispered. “We’re leaving Bo behind.”
The princess looked at him in disbelief. “You want to try to outrun a dozen warhorses on an old mule?”
“No, of course not! I just—”
A shout rang out from atop the hill.
“Now,” Lu said. “Come on. Best to go before they see us.” She slung herself over the horse and held out her hand.
A neighbor would surely take care of Bo until he returned. If he returned.
He took t
he princess’s hand.
The horse bristled and stamped as Nok arranged himself in the saddle. Perhaps the creature smelled something on him that it didn’t like; Nok thought briefly back to yesterday, his cauling. It seemed like that had been a hundred years ago. It seemed like it had been a dream.
“Ya!” the princess whispered into the horse’s ear. Nok reflexively tightened his grip around the princess’s waist and clenched his thighs into the horse’s sides as the creature took off down the slope, bound for Yunis, leaving behind everything he’d ever known for the second time in his life.
CHAPTER 19
Mothers
“A reward of eight taels of gold and the deed to a sky manse will be bestowed on the person who brings me Princess Lu, dead or alive,” Set announced, his voice thundering in the reverent silence of the Heart. He was seated to Min’s left, in her father’s throne—no, she reminded herself. Her father was dead. Set was emperor.
Dead or alive. Min forced herself not to flinch, thinking of her sister. She would fix this. She would give him Yunis, and then he would love her enough to grant Lu her life.
Regicide. Patricide. These were the crimes leveled against her sister. Terrible words.
Lies, a voice inside Min hissed. She could not tell if it was her own.
“We will observe the customary one hundred days of mourning for the late emperor Daagmun,” Set proclaimed.
A murmur of cursory prayers arose from the assembled court, but he cut it short.
“Now,” he broke in. “Enough of the past. We must address our future.” He paused, a furrow cutting into his handsome brow. “I have grave news to share with you: Yunis has declared war upon the empire.”
Min’s head whipped toward him before she could stop herself. He was still facing the crowd. Behind him, Brother nodded serenely along with his words. Seated on his far side, her mother was unresponsive, impassive. Had she known?
Of course she had, Min thought. Likely everyone knew but me. Everyone who matters.
