“Fine, Leaf Water. I’ll let ye come with me. But mark my words—if ye get in my way or steal my kill, I’ll cut ye from throat to stomach.”
I nod slowly, trying not to look at her knife. “Of that, I have no doubt.”
10
We travel for four daysand three nights riding double on horseback, headed farther south toward the Bo Shan Peninsula.
I have heard a great many tales of Longhao, the Southern Kingdom’s capital city. It’s said to be a fortress within a fortress. At the very center lies the Jade Palace, once home to the Southern Kingdom’s own imperial dynasty, carved from peak to foundation of the greenest jade, from which it received its name. That was several centuries ago, however. An uprising saw to the end of their rule, or so I’ve heard.
Now the Southern Kingdom is governed by a handful of provincial ministers, though I hear they fight among themselves more often than they work together. Too many captains aboard the ship, as it were. It’s frankly no wonder Emperor Róng decided to launch his war. It’s far easier to conquer your enemies when they already stand divided.
Now the Jade Palace lies empty and rotting, haunted by the wandering souls of kings of old, their concubines, and eunuchs alike. It’s not uncommon to hear tales about would-be thieves who sneak onto the premises in the dead of night, bringing along withthem the tools they need to chip away at the walls and escape with handfuls of jade to sell under the table, as much as they can take before being frightened off by the strange noises in the palace. Some say a pair of nine-tailed fox demons roams the halls, searching for souls to devour—not that anyone is brave enough to prove it.
That’s what the traveling merchants have told me, at least. I was an impressionable young lad when they recounted these tales in town. Everything beyond the mountain border is a mystery to me. I might have enjoyed all this as some grand adventure if my heart weren’t so rife with concern for my mother.
I wasn’t always such a worrywart. I can remember the exact moment the world shifted around me, the easy days of my childhood vanishing overnight. It was the day after A-Ba’s funeral. My mother was normally the first in the family to rise. But that morning, I entered her room, my stomach grumbling and eager for breakfast, startled to find her curled up with one of A-Ba’s old robes. They still smelled like him, she said. For days, she didn’t eat, nor did she sleep. A-Ma didn’tmove, too overcome by her grief to lift a finger. At five and ten, I suddenly became the man of the house. I was determined to take care of my mother at all costs.
Within the span of a week, I taught myself how to cook. I would stand by the food vendor stalls and watch them prepare hot meals over roaring woks, studying every spice and noting each step of their recipes. Some would shoo me away, calling me a nuisance, but most took pity on me.
Poor boy lost his A-Ba. Let him learn.
It was the teahouse I was most intimidated by. I feared attending to guests. I didn’t have A-Ba’s easy charisma, nor his lighthearted humor. I couldn’t talk to the grown-ups about politics or philosophy, and I had little interest in making small talk about the weather. But I knew I had to do something. A teahouse with a bad host couldn’t hope to survive for long.
So I began spending more of my mornings at the markets, listening intently to the tales of the traveling merchants. It was an education, in a way, exposing me to every corner of the Five Kingdoms without ever having to leave Jiaoshan. I would return to the teahouse every day with a new tale to share, and when I recounted it to my mother, I would do my best to imitate my father’s animated confidence.
I knew I was doing something right the day I finally made A-Ma laugh. It was many moons after the funeral, late at night, just as we were finishing dinner. I can hardly remember the story now—something about talking fish griping in the belly of a whale. She laughed so hard that it brought tears to her eyes, the sound hugging me like a warm blanket in the dead of winter. I swore I would have more of it.
I decided then that if it was a fool she needed, a fool I would be.
I hope A-Ma is well and doesn’t become even sicker with worry. I fear Emperor Róng may take his ire out on her if I don’t return promptly, but I hope even he won’t resort to such monstrousness. I wonder if I might be able to get a message to A-Ma over the closed border. The fastest way would be by carrier pigeon, but there will be no way of knowing whether the bird makes it home. Still, I must try. My first stop will be the post, should Longhao boast one in the first place.
I can’t wait to tell her all that has happened. My encounter with the emperor, my terrifying ride into battle—and my encounter with aliving, breathing dragon.
It’s late afternoon by the time Feng tugs on the reins and brings the horse to a full stop just outside the city gates. She elbows me in the stomach as she throws her leg over and dismounts. I follow suit, eager to stretch my legs. It’s never been more obvious that I would have made a very poor horseman.
“Here, take this.” Feng throws a hooded cape over my head. It smells musty and sour with soil and sweat. My nose curls at the stink. I don’t dare ask where she had it stored.
“I take it you wish for me to put it on?” I ask, pinching the rough fabric between my fingers with a grimace.
“Ye look too foreign,” she tells me. “Try not to draw too much attention to yerself. People’re skittish around these parts. We’re at war, after all.”
Feng guides the horse through the city’s main gate. The outer walls show signs of recent work, stone slabs layered together with dried, cracking mud. The main road leading into the city is in an equal state of disrepair, though one glance at Longhao’s unique design is all it takes to understand why.
It is a city built upon water.
Narrow canals cut past buildings in a grid formation, arching gray moon bridges offering pedestrians safe passage over the murky river flow. Wilting wisteria trees droop along the water’s edge, their branches thin and bare, their shriveled purple petals floating away with the current. Long flat-bottomed boats made of smooth wooden planks line the sides of the canals in disorganized rows, their hulls filled with empty woven baskets. It’s a water market, though goods for purchase seem scarce and far between.
The border closure has taken its toll. The people here are starving. Perhaps this is a part of Emperor Róng’s strategy. The Empire stretches from east to west, trapping the Southern Kingdom of Jian on the other side of the mountain pass. Without direct passage for trade to move freely, imports can arrive only via the rough, unforgiving waters. Merchants who pass through Jiaoshan frequently bring with them the news of yet another capsized ship, lost to the unpredictable nature of the Albeion Sea. A year without properaccess to food has left the people weak—too weak, even, to put up a proper fight.
“We need to restock before headin’ out on our hunt,” Feng states. She slaps a small pouch of coins into the palm of my hand. “I’ll find a stable fer the horse and get us supplies fer the trip. Yer in charge of food. Meet me back at this here main gate by nightfall.”
I nod hesitantly, sincerely hoping I don’t lose my way. Pulling my cape’s hood over my head, I set out in the opposite direction from Feng. I’ll find food just as she has asked, but first—the pigeon post.
The paths of Longhao are narrow, the waterways taking precedence over the walkways. There’s just enough space for two people, the grazing of shoulders inevitable when trying to pass someone in a hurry. It’s not the lack of space that concerns me, though—it’s the stark decay and poverty around every corner.
I was always led to believe that Longhao was a vibrant, thriving place, despite its abandoned palace. Instead, I find myself surrounded by a sea of beggars. Men, women, and children, all clad in soiled clothes, with their hands outstretched in the hopes that they might be spared a few coins. Pity sits cold in the well of my stomach. They’re everywhere, the poor and the forgotten, so weak and thin that they cannot lift their heads to look at me as I pass.
Something tugs at the hem of my cloak. A child’s little hand clings to the bottom corner.
