The Throne of the Five Winds

Book 1: Hostage of Empire

by S.C. Emmett

Genres: Fantasy action & adventure; Epic Fantasy; Historical Fantasy

Synopsis

The lady-in-waiting to the princess of a conquered kingdom must navigate a treacherous imperial court, in this captivating beginning of an East Asia-inspired epic fantasy trilogy. Two queens, two concubines, six princes. A single hidden blade. The imperial palace -- full of ambitious royals, sly gossip, and unforeseen perils -- is perhaps the most dangerous place in the Empire of Zhaon. Komor Yala, lady-in-waiting to the princess of the vanquished kingdom of Khir, has only her wits and her hidden blade to protect herself and her charge, who was sacrificed in marriage to the enemy as a hostage for her conquered people's good behavior, to secure a tenuous peace. But the Emperor is aging, and the Khir princess and her lady-in-waiting soon find themselves pawns in the six princes' deadly schemes for the throne -- and a single spark could ignite fresh rebellion in Khir. Then, the Emperor falls ill -- and a far bloodier game begins... Hostage of Empire The Throne of the Five Winds The Poison Prince

Release date: October 15, 2019

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 705

Sample

Above the Great Keep of Khir and the smoky bowl of its accreted city, tombs rose upon mountainside terraces. Only the royal and Second Families had the right to cut their names into stone here, and this small stone pailai1 was one of the very oldest. Hard, small pinpoints about to become white or pink blossoms starred the branches of ancient, twisted yeoyans;2 a young woman in blue, her black hair dressed simply but carefully with a single white-shell comb, stood before the newest marker. Incense smoked as she folded her hands for decorous prayer, a well-bred daughter performing a rare unchaperoned duty.

Below, the melt had begun and thin droplets scattered from tiled roofs both scarlet and slate, from almost-budding branches. Here snow still lingered in corners and upon sheltered stones; winter-blasted grass slept underneath. No drip disturbed the silence of the ancestors.

A booted foot scraped stone. The girl’s head, bowed, did not move. There was only one person who would approach while she propitiated her ancestors, and she greeted him politely. “Your Highness.” But she did not raise her head.

“None of that, Yala.” The young man, his topknot caged and pierced with gold, wore ceremonial armor before the dead. His narrow-nosed face had paled, perhaps from the cold, and his gaze—grey as a winter sky, grey as any noble blood-pure Khir’s—lingered upon her nape. As usual, he dispensed with pleasantries. “You do not have to go.”

Of course he would think so. Her chin dropped a little farther. “If I do not, who will?” Other noble daughters, their fathers not so known for rectitude as the lord of Komori, were escaping the honor in droves.

“Others.” A contemptuous little word. “Servants. There is no shortage.”

Yala’s cloud-grey eyes opened. She said nothing, watching the gravestone as if she expected a shade to rise. Her offerings were made at her mother’s tomb already, but here was where she lingered. A simple stone marked the latest addition to the shades of her House—fine carving, but not ostentatious. The newly rich might display like fan-tailed baryo,3 but not those who had ridden to war with the Three Kings of the First Dynasty. Or so her father thought, though he did not say it.

A single tone, or glance, was enough to teach a lesson.

Ashani Daoyan, Crown Prince of Khir newly legitimized and battlefield-blooded, made a restless movement. Lean but broad-shouldered, with a slight roundness to his cheeks bespeaking his Narikh motherblood, he wore the imperial colors easily; a bastard son, like an unmarried aunt, learned to dress as the weather dictated. Leather creaked slightly, and his breath plumed in the chill. “If your brother were alive—”

“—I would be married to one of his friends, and perhaps widowed as well.” Now Komor Yala, the only surviving child of General Hai Komori Dasho, moved too, a slight swaying as if she wished to turn and halted just in time. “Please, Daoyan.” The habit of long friendship made it not only possible but necessary to address him so informally. “Not before my Elder Brother.”

“Yala…” Perhaps Dao’s half-armor, black chased with yellow, was not adequate for this particular encounter. The boy she had known, full of sparkstick4 pride and fierce silence when that pride was balked, had ridden to war; this young man returned in his place.

Did he regret being dragged from the field to preserve a dynasty while so many others stood and died honorably? She could not ask, merely suspect, so Yala shook her head. Her own words were white clouds, chosen carefully and given to the frigid morning. “Who will care for my princess, if I do not?”

“You cannot waste your life that way.” A slight sound—gauntlets creaking. Daoyan still clenched his fists. She should warn him against so open a display of emotion, but perhaps in a man it did not matter so much.

“And yet.” There is no other option, her tone replied, plainly. Not one I am willing to entertain. “I will take great care with your royal sister, Your Highness.”

Of course he could not leave the battlefield thus, a draw achieved but no victory in sight. “I will offer for you.”

“You already would have, if you thought your honored father would allow it.” She bowed, a graceful supple bending with her skirts brushing fresh-swept stone. “Please, Daoyan.” Her palms met, and her head dropped even farther when she straightened, the attitude of a filial daughter from a scroll’s illustrations.

Even a prince dared not interrupt prayers begun before a relative’s tomb. Daoyan turned, finally, boots ringing through thin snow to pavers she had not attended to with her small broom, and left the pailai with long, swinging strides.

Yala slipped her hands deeper inside her sleeves and regarded the memorial stone. Bai, of course, would have sniffed at the prospect of his little sister marrying a man with an honorless mother, no matter if he had proven himself in war and the Great Rider had legitimized him. Bai would also have forbidden her to accompany Mahara. He was not the clan-head, but since he came of age their father had let him take heavier duties and listened to his counsel. Bai’s refusal would have carried weight, and Yala could have bowed her head to accept it instead of insisting upon her duty as a noble daughter must before a distinguished parent.

Perhaps that would have been best. Was the cringing, creeping relief she would have felt cowardice? The other noble families were scurrying to keep their daughters from Mahara’s retinue, marriages contracted or health problems discovered with unseemly haste. The Great Rider, weakened as he was by the defeat at Three Rivers and the slow strangling of Khir’s southron trade, could not force noble daughters to accompany his own, he could only… request.

Other clans and families could treat it as a request, but Komori held to the ancient codes. It was a high honor to attend the princess of Khir, and Yala had done so since childhood. To cease in adversity was unworthy of a Komor daughter.

Burning incense sent lazy curls of scented smoke heavenward. If her brother was watching, he would have been fuming like the sticks themselves. A slow smolder and a hidden fire, that was Hai Komori Baiyan. She could only hope she was the same, and the conquering Zhaon would not smother her and her princess.

First things first. You are to pay your respects here, and then to comfort your father.

As if there could be any comfort to a Khir nobleman whose only son was dead. Hai Komori Dasho would be gladdened to be rid of a daughter and the need to find a dowry, that much was certain. Even if he was not, he would act as if he were, because that was the correct way to regard this situation.

The Komori, especially the clan heads, were known for their probity.

Her fingertips worried at her knuckles, and she sighed. “Oh, damoi,5 my much-blessed Bai,” she whispered. It was not quite meet to pronounce the name of the dead, but she could be forgiven a single use of such a precious item. “How I wish you were here.”

She bent before her brother’s grave one last time, and her fingers found a sharp-edged, triangular pebble among the flat pavers, blasted grass, and iron-cold dirt. They could not plow quite yet, but the monjok6 and yeoyan blossoms were out. Spring would come early this year, but she would not see the swallows returning. The care of the pailai would fall to more distant kin from a junior branch of the clan.

Yala tucked the pebble in a sleeve-pocket, carefully. She could wrap it with red silken thread, decorate a hairstick with falling beads, and wear a part of both Bai and her homeland daily. A small piece of grit in the conqueror’s court, hopefully accreting nacre instead of dishonor.

There were none left to care for her father in his aging. Perhaps he would marry again. If Bai were still alive…

“Stop,” she murmured, and since there were none to see her, Yala’s face could contort under a lash of pain, a horse shying at the whip. “He is not.”

Khir had ridden to face Zhaon’s great general at Three Rivers, and the eldest son of a proud Second Family would not be left behind. The battle had made Daoyan a hero and Bai a corpse, but it was useless to Khir. The conquerors had dictated their terms; war took its measure, reaping a rich harvest, and Zhaon was the scythe.

Khir would rise again, certainly, but not soon enough to save a pair of women. Even a cursory study of history showed that a farm could change hands, and he who reaped yesterday might be fertilizer for the next scythe-swinger. There was little comfort in the observation, even if it was meant to ease the pain of the defeated.

For the last time, Yala bowed before her brother’s stone. If she walked slowly upon her return, the evidence of tears would be erased by the time she reached the foot of the pailai’s smooth-worn stairs and the single maidservant waiting, holding her mistress’s horse and bundled against the cold as Yala disdained to be.

A noblewoman suffered ice without a murmur. Inside, and out.

Hai Komori’s blackened bulk rested within the walls of the Old City. It frowned in the old style, stone walls and sharply pitched slate-tiled roof; its great hall was high and gloomy. The longtable, crowded with retainers at dinners twice every tenday, was a blackened piece of old wood; it stood empty now, with the lord’s low chair upon the dais watching its oiled, gleaming surface. Mirrorlight drifted, brought through holes in the roof and bounced between polished discs, crisscrossing the high space.

Dusty cloth rustled overhead, standards and pennons taken in battle. There were many, and their sibilance was the song of a Second Family. The men rode to war, the women to hunt, and between them the whole world was ordered. Or so the classics, both the canonical Hundreds and supplements, said. Strong hunters made strong sons, and Yala had sometimes wondered why her mother, who could whisper a hawk out of the sky, had not given her father more than two. Bai the eldest was ash upon the wind and a name upon a tablet; the second son had not even reached his naming-day.

And Komor Madwha, a daughter of the Jehng family and high in the regard of the Great Rider and her husband as well, died shortly after her only daughter’s birth.

Komori Dasho was here instead of in his study. Straight-backed, only a few thin threads of frost woven into his topknot, a vigorous man almost into the status of elder sat upon the dais steps, gazing at the table and the great hearth. When a side door opened and blue silk made its subtle sweet sound, he closed his eyes.

Yala, as ever, bowed properly to her father though he was not looking. “Your daughter greets you, pai.”

He acknowledged with a nod. She waited, her hands folded in her sleeves again, faintly uneasy. Her father was a tall man, his shoulders still hard from daily practice with saber and spear; his face was pure Khir. Piercing grey eyes, straight black hair topknotted as a Second Dynasty lord’s, a narrow high prow of a nose, a thin mouth, and bladed cheekbones harsh as the sword-mountains themselves. Age settled more firmly upon him with each passing winter, drawing skin tighter and bone-angles sharper. His house robe was spare and dark, subtly patterned but free of excessive ornamentation.

He was, in short, the very picture of a Khir noble—except he was not, as usual, straight as an iron reed upon his low backless chair with the standard of their house—the setting sun and the komor flower7—hung behind it.

Finally, he patted the stone step with his left hand. “Come, sit.” His intonation was informal, and that was another surprise.

Yala settled herself, carefully. With her dress arranged and her feet tucked to the side, she lowered her eyelids and waited.

Lord Komori did not care for idle chatter.

The great hall was different from this angle. The table was large as it had been when she was a child, and the cavernous fireplace looked ready to swallow an unwary passerby whole. The braziers were blackened spirit-kettles, their warmth barely touching winter’s lingering chill. Flagstones, swept and scrubbed even when winter meant the buckets formed ice which needed frequent breaking, stared blankly at the ceiling, polished by many feet. Yala stilled, a habit born of long practice in her father’s presence.

The mouse that moves is taken. Another proverb. The classics were stuffed to bursting with them.

As a child she had fidgeted and fluttered, Dowager Eun despairing of ever teaching her discretion. In Yala’s twelfth spring the weight of decorum had begun to tell, and she had decided it was easier to flow with that pressure than stagger under it. Even Mahara had been surprised, and she, of all the world, perhaps knew Yala best.

After Bai, that was.

“Yala,” her father said, as if reminding himself who she was. That was hardly unusual. The sons stayed, the daughters left. An advantageous marriage was her duty to Komori. It was a pity there had been no offers. I wonder what is wrong with me, she had murmured to Mahara once.

I do not wish to share you with a husband, Mahara answered, when she could speak for laughing.

“Yes.” Simple, and soft, as a noblewoman should speak. She wished she were at her needlework, the satisfaction of a stitch pulled neatly and expertly making up for pricked fingers. Or in the mews, hawk-singing. Writing out one of the many classics once again, her brush held steady. Reading, or deciding once more what to pack and what to leave behind.

She wished, in fact, to be anywhere but here. After a visit to the ancestors, though, her presence at her father’s wrist was expected. Brought back to endure scrutiny like a hawk itself, a feather passed over her plumage, so as not to disturb the subtle oils thereupon.

“I have often thought you should have been born male.” Komori Dasho sighed, his shoulders dropping. The sudden change was startling, and disturbing. “You would have made a fine son.” Even if it was high praise, it still stung. A formulaic reply rose inside her, but he did not give her the chance to utter as much. “But if you were, you would have died upon that bloodfield as well, and I would have opened my veins at the news.”

Startled, Yala turned her head to gaze upon his profile. The room was not the only thing that looked different from this angle. The thunder-god of her childhood, straight and proud, sat beside her, staring at the table. And, terrifyingly, hot water had come to Komori Dasho’s eyes. It swelled, glittering, and anything she might have said vanished.

“My little light,” he continued. “Did you know? I named you thus, after your mother died. Not aloud, but here.” His thin, strong right fist, the greenstone seal-ring of a proud and ancient house glinting upon his index finger, struck his chest. “I knew not to say such things, for the gods would be angry and steal you as they took her.”

Yala’s chest tightened. A Lord Komori severe in displeasure or stern with approval she could answer. Who was this?

Her father did not give her a chance to reply. “In the end it does not matter. The Great Rider has requested and we must answer; you will attend the princess in Zhaon.”

This much I knew already. The pebble in her sleeve-pocket pressed against her wrist. She realized she was not folding her hands but clutching them, knuckles probably white under smooth fabric. “Yes.” There. Was that an acceptable response?

He nodded, slowly. The frost in his hair had spread since news of Three Rivers; she had not noticed before. This was the closest she had been to her father since… she could not remember the last time. She could not remember when he last spoke to her with the informal inflection or case, either. Yala searched for something else to say. “I will not shame our family, especially among them.”

“You—” He paused, straightened. “You have your yue?”

Of course I do. “It is the honor of a Khir woman,” she replied, as custom demanded. Was this a test? If so, would she pass? Familiar anxiety sharpened inside her ribs. “Does my father wish to examine its edge?” The blade was freshly honed; no speck of rust or whisper of disuse would be found upon its slim greenmetal length.

“Ah. No, of course not.” His hands dangled at his knees, lax as they never had been in her memory. “Will you write to your father?”

“Of course.” As if she would dare not to. The stone under her was a cold, uncomfortable saddle, but she did not dare shift. “Every month.”

“Every week.” The swelling water in his eyes did not overflow. Yala looked away. It was uncomfortably akin to seeing a man outside the clan drunk, or at his dressing. “Will you?”

“Yes.” If you require it of me.

“I have kept you close all this time.” His fingers curled slightly, as if they wished for a hilt. “There were many marriage offers made for you, Yala. Since your naming-day, you have been sought. I refused them all.” He sighed, heavily. “I could not let you go. Now, I am punished for it.”

She sat, stunned and silent, until her father, for the first and last time, put a lean-muscled, awkward arm about her shoulders. The embrace was brief and excruciating, and when it ended he rose and left the hall, iron-backed as ever, with his accustomed quiet step.

He is proud of you, she had often told Bai. He simply does not show it.

Perhaps it had not been a lie told to soothe her brother’s heart. And perhaps, just perhaps, she could believe it for herself.

Vermilion columns marched on either side of the walkway; white stone stairs between two of those silent sentinels descended to a sand-garden. A single chunk of rough black stone stood slightly off-center in the rectangle, pale golden sand raked smoothly in soft wavelike patterns contrasting with the chunk’s irregular edges. Morning sun glittered upon the red-tiled slopes of the Kaeje’s roof, and Emperor Garan Tamuron of Zhaon, mighty in war and merciless in peace, clasped his hands behind his back, regarding sand, stone, and a single print just past the last step that matched his own slippered foot. His robe, dark crimson starred and threaded with gold, sat easily upon shoulders still broad from long campaigning, though his middle was not as trim as it had once been. His many-times-broken nose was broad, black hair pulled into a sleek, gold-caged topknot, and his dark gaze was just as keen as ever.

To his right, a step back as etiquette dictated, a lean black-haired man in plain leather half-armor regarded the same view, but precious few could have deciphered his expression. General Zakkar Kai was held to have a face of stone, sleepy-eyed, broad-jawed, and chisel-lipped. His own topknot was careless, yet he carried a famous dragon-hilted sword in the Emperor’s presence. Muddy irises bespoke some barbarian—or even Khir—in his ancestry, though none would have said as much openly.

Not anymore.

Finally, Emperor Garan Tamuron sighed, his chin settling as he gazed upon a garden meant to encourage contemplation and refinement. The sound usually meant he was seeing old battles—or anticipating a fresh skirmish. “The First Queen visited me this morning.”

The general nodded, knowing his warlord would sense the movement. “That must have been pleasant.”

A wry smile touched the corners of the Emperor’s thin lips. “Oh, exceedingly, my general. Exceedingly.” He sobered, his thumb rubbing a sanjai8-wood bead meditatively. He had many kombin—beads strung upon silken cord, used as abacus or prayer-marker. This was the one he most favored: simple and stained with use, wrapped about his broad wrist and dipping into his left palm. A gift from a laughing woman long ago, a woman whose shrine was kept ever-lit. “She was full of advice for Takyeo’s marriage.”

Advice and lamentations, no doubt. If the Crown Prince produced an heir, Queen Gamwone’s dreams were that much further from fruition. “The Khir girl.” Zakkar Kai, the true architect of victory at Three Rivers, studied the garden’s central rock as well. The view was not exactly displeasing, but he’d seen enough of empty sand to last a lifetime. Never mind that he was only seven winters old, give or take, when Tamuron had brought a foundling boy from the edge of the world to the center of civilization. “Ashani’s only daughter. A pearl of great price, it is said.”

“No doubt the First Queen will be an attentive mother-in-law.” The Emperor’s mouth was sour. Birds sang close by, in one of the pleasure-gardens full of cool shade and small-feathered life. Most mornings, Tamuron halted here on his way to the Great Hall, sometimes lingering for whatever reason moved the mind of a warlord become royalty. “I take it Takyeo is resigned.”

“The Crown Prince longs to please his father. As usual.” Kai considered that enough said. Bearing Tamuron’s hopes was a heavy task, and Crown Prince Takyeo perhaps longed to lay it aside. Which made him, in a wise opinion or two, the best choice for the throne. Those same wise opinions, though, were divided upon how long the Crown Prince would survive before climbing to the great seat, with such an honorable longing hobbling him.

The Emperor moved from one trouble to the next. “The Second Queen will wish to outdo the First with marriage-gifts.”

“At least hers will not have a sting in the tail.” In other words, Kai was well aware, and he had taken steps to ensure the First Queen’s gifts would not be true poison.

Just a facsimile.

Tamuron moved down the list of problems. “What of the First Concubine?”

Concubine Luswone was not a simple soul, but she was, in many respects, a largely passive one. Kai knew what would come next on the litany of worries, and moved to answer it. “I believe she is embroidering some silk for the new princess. Her daughter seems resigned, as well.”

“Ah.” The Emperor nodded. Princess Sabwone was the more ambitious of his two daughters, though her mother did well reining her in. “Never take more than one wife, General. They are trouble.”

Kai banished a smile. “And yet the pillars keep the roof secure.” It was a fine quatrain, not one of the classics, but close.

“One wonders how the roof feels.” Tamuron’s pained smile was, at least, better than a scowl.

“We small birds nest beneath the Emperor’s grace.” A portentous intoning, as his own hands rested behind him. Kai shifted slightly, easing an ache in his left foot. He preferred proper boots to these slippers; the palace floor could bruise even through calluses. At least the Emperor did not list Kanbina among the problems; the Second Concubine was not a dangerous soul.

The Emperor nodded. The set of his shoulders said he was pleased, and his cares had lifted for a moment. “You have been studying your poetry.”

A lord of Zhaon should know the classics as well as the blade. “You said I should.” So, dutifully though not even close to cheerfully, Garan Tamuron’s head general obeyed. Just as he moved to ease his Emperor’s difficulties, or at least draw their teeth.

“Ah.” A pause. Tamuron’s fingers caressed another kombin-bead. “Is there news of Takshin?”

The largest worry, saved for last. “The Third Prince is on his way to attend the wedding.”

A slow nod, gold glittering upon Tamuron’s topknot. The Emperor would have his eyes closed now, calling forth a tactical map or perhaps bracing himself for the morning’s session with his ministers. “Is Shan pacified, do you think?”

“He would not return, were it not.” It was not quite a lie, Kai decided, or even a polite fiction. “Their queen was mad, but her son regards Takshin as a brother. Or so it is said.” Khir was a Ch’han dagger pointed at the heart of Zhaon, and Shan a shield or a smothering blanket. To pluck the blade and turn the shield outward had been the dream of every petty Zhaon warlord, but it was Tamuron who had performed the feat at last. Three Rivers would have had an entirely different outcome if he had not carefully bled Khir for years, balancing border skirmishes against tariffs. And Shan, sharing language and customs with Zhaon, would seal itself to Zhaon ever more firmly now that the Mad Queen had breathed her last, and when her son was dealt with.

One way, or another.

The Emperor paused. “How does Takshin regard him?”

Who knows? Asking what Takshin thought of anything was a fool’s game. If he wished you to know, the Third Prince would tell you. Kai was in his counsel more often than not, perhaps because he didn’t ask, simply waited or guessed. “His letters are careful.”

“So he has learned that much, at least.” A sigh, supple fingertips moving to the next bead. “I should not have sent him there.”

“Of all the princes, he was the one best suited.” And the one you hated least to lose. Kai hesitated. “Your Majesty?”

“Yes?”

There would never be a better time to ask. “Give me leave to ride the borders. You will have greater peace of mind.” And I will not be in this nest of vipers.

“No.” Kindly, though, the Emperor deigned to give a reason. “I need you here, especially for the marriage and coronation. You are the Crown Prince’s ally. Sixth Prince Jin is old enough to take a generalship, should the situation require it.”

“He has the gift.” And no doubt Jin would prefer soldiery to princely lessons under his mother’s roof. “Still, I prefer the camp to the palace, Your Majesty.”

“And you think I do not?”

It was not a rebuke, but Zakkar Kai dropped his chin. Instead of the worn stone stairs—this had been a palace since the Second Dynasty, though fallen into disrepair before Tamuron’s time—Kai’s gaze traced the contours of the footprint in the sand. The lightness in the forefoot bespoke a warrior’s training, though the pressure of the heel was that of an aging man. “The Crown Prince has more than one ally. The Fourth and Sixth Princes are particularly close to him, and Court Astrologer Banh as well.”

“Makar is a scholar, not a blade, and Jin is an… honorable… warrior. Takyeo needs you, as I do.”

“A sword to hand.” A commonborn foundling, even one brought to the palace by the Emperor himself, possessed a latitude of action a prince would not. Especially if he was sometimes a little less than choosy about how problems were addressed. Rumor swirled about Zakkar Kai and his habit of winning battles.

High in the Emperor’s regard was a precarious perch, especially if the position seemed secure.

“The best kind, my old friend. You will receive a hurai9 soon.”

So. You decided. A prince’s seal. That would make the rumors worse. “Your Majesty.” A bow to express his gratitude, but not a deep one. “That will cause gossip.” The First Queen would be furious, the Second Queen merely mildly irritated. First Concubine Luswone would ignore it, her cool disdain unchanged. At least there was that.

“It will make the Second Concubine proud, though.” Tamuron said it lightly, as if that were the only consideration. His wrist turned, flicking expended beads and gathering new ones. “How does she fare?”

Kai had not yet had time to inspect her new staff, but he had hopes. “Her household should be well-ordered, now.” She has a husband but no husband, and a son but no son. Kai buried a bright flash of almost-hate swiftly. It served no purpose. Concubine Kanbina, sold to cement a final alliance, and the box of the jelong tea sent to her by First Queen Gamwone… oh, it could not be proven, but Kai knew very well.

Very well indeed.

“Good. I worry less for her, with a son such as you.”

Adopted son. It was a dismissal, and Kai recognized as much. “She says the same, Your Majesty.” It was all the criticism he dared offer. He bowed again, and left the royal presence without waiting for leave.

As usual, Garan Tamuron let him go.

“Kai!” A flutter of rosy silk, a flash of soft hands, and the Second Concubine rose from her playing-couch, her sathron10 hastily set aside. Its strings resonated with the motion, adding a subtle thrill to afternoon sunlight falling through wide windows with newly repaired shutters. Black hair dressed high in the style of Yanwe11 gleamed, and her ornament was a simple half-moon of shell, as usual. Too pale and angular for beauty, she was nevertheless agreed to be arresting, for those who bothered to comment upon the most reclusive of Garan Takyeo’s women. “You’ve returned!”

He bent to let her kiss his cheek, breathing in her perfume of hala12 blossom and citron water, and took in her quarters. Much better—the draperies were well cleaned and the furniture polished; the windows were open and a balmy breeze floated through. There was no dust or grime upon the floor, and Garan Wurai Kanbina’s robes were not mended castoffs but new, and suited her exactly. “I could not stay away from you, adoptive-mother.”

“No, no, that won’t do.” She tugged at one sleeve, then another, settling his under-tunic. “Mother. And what is this, wearing armor? Are you going away again?”

Of course, she would worry, and she did not remark upon his sword. So Kai gave her the reassurance she hoped for. “The Emperor has asked me to remain for the wedding. Come, sit, do not let me disturb your practice.”

“Nonsense, it is no disturbance.” She clapped her hands, once, twice, a lady’s summons. “Tea for my son the General. And refreshment. If I know you, you have not eaten, too busy with weighty things.”

The close-maids—three of them, engaged