Jade Fire Gold(10)
I lean against the roof of the inn now, my mind a riot of thoughts. This knife-edged guilt is a frequent visitor of the night. The number of lives my ancestors and uncle have ruined, the number of families torn apart, the dying land . . .
I sigh and stare up into the indigo sky.
Son of Heaven.
That is what we call our emperors. And that is the reason why the troops don’t hesitate to follow the emperor into battle or to carry out his whims and desires. To many of my countrymen, the emperor’s word is the holy truth, and the Diyeh priests do their best to bolster this myth.
Father sat on the Dragon Throne before his brother, Gao Long, for many years. During that time, Shi was at peace with its neighbors. The Tiensai lived without fear, and the Diyeh priesthood was removed from its pedestal of power. Father never saw it as his divine right to rule over everyone in the world, whatever the old traditions say.
It was a belief that brought him more enemies than admirers.
We were told that an assassin from Honguodi had murdered him in his own bed. Shi pride called for retaliation: the alleged assassin was executed, and Shi troops marched onto the flame-colored soil of Honguodi tinged ruby like blood.
But it was a lie.
There was no assassin from Honguodi—only some poor fool who took the fall. Father’s death was merely a convenient excuse to invade those iron-rich cities of the west.
Father died by the hand of his own brother. A brother whom he loved and cherished, and whom he treated as his equal. A brother who put himself on the throne right away, claiming to be a mere seat-warmer ensuring the safety of the nation during the transition.
Another lie.
My uncle was thorough when he took the throne.
The only way a lion can take control of a pride is to get rid of his rival’s cubs. Those loyal to Father were either executed or exiled, and my uncle sent killers after us.
Killed by our mother out of grief before she took her own life. That was the official word from the palace about the disappearance of my sister and me. Somewhere among those royal tombs lies my empty coffin, sized for a child.
The world thinks I’m dead. And I want to keep it that way.
The last of the waning moon’s gentle light caresses my face, and soon, the sun peeks from the far horizon. I stretch my limbs, intending to climb down, but movement from below catches my eye.
Clad in rust-orange robes that glow ominously in the dawn light, a group of people enter the town, striding purposefully down the empty main street.
The Diyeh are here.
3
Ahn
At last, there’s color and life in this miserable place. Unlike the usual carts selling quick bites, local produce, and sundries from the region, the bazaar brings together merchants and traders from all over the Empire and other nations in an exchange of goods and information. Shahmo used to be a fixed stop on the route, but the war and the desert changed that. It’s been a few years since the town has been this busy and filled with excitement.
Despite the early hour, the bazaar is in full swing. Rainbow-hued silks drape beautifully around the clothing and fabric stalls. A melody of different dialects and accents buzzes in the air, mingling with the scent of fragrant spices and food. Merchants jostle each other, peddling their wares as locals and travelers browse and barter. One hand gripping the jade ring in my pocket, I wander around the town square, looking for an opportunity to sell.
There’s a vendor with crates of luscious-looking fruits, probably harvested from the north or across the Straits of Nandah in the south where the land is still fertile. Golden apricots, pale yellow pomelos, large spiky fruits I haven’t seen before, and little purplish ones, too. Curiously, I pick one up. It’s the size of a small orange, with a hard rind and reddish splotches on its skin. The scrawny vendor is busy with another customer. He won’t notice if I slip it into my pocket.
But just as I do, a gravelly voice behind me says softly, “I saw that.”
I spin around, half expecting to see Li Guo. Instead, I’m met with a boy who looks a couple of years older than me.
He glares with his one eye, dark brown with a tint of gold. A black eye patch rests where his right eye should have been, and a brutal web of scars radiates down to his cheekbone. But it doesn’t take away the rugged beauty of his face.
His hànfú is the color of pewter, with swirly silver patterns on the cross-collar lapel, and his outer robe is pitch black with burgundy trimmings—a complete violation of the Imperial mourning decree. Either he is foreign or he doesn’t care. Fitted through the arms and wrists, his sleeves are bound by leather cuffs crisscrossed with metal beads and thread the color of blood. Nobility flaunt their wealth with long billowy silks, while common merchants and peasants like me have sleeves of a modest range, made from hemp or cotton.
Only pugilists or cultivators wear their sleeves narrow like this boy.
Sure enough, I spy a pair of dāo crisscrossing his back and a quiver of arrows hanging from his belt. His bow hangs over his shoulder like it’s part of his body. I can’t guess why he’s armed to this extent. Whatever the reason, he feels like trouble. There’s a fierce leanness to him. Like a tiger coiled up, ready to pounce. I’m standing in the open street, but I feel cornered like prey.
Don’t be silly. Armed or not, he’s just a boy. I haven’t left the stall yet. I could put the fruit back and walk free. I stare back, defiant.