After the gate closed the sounds of the town of Osenok were quieted to little more than a distant murmur. With the shade and the absence of the winter breeze, Min La felt both very contained and very exposed. The man before him was a stranger to him, but his House was not. He very much feared that he had been saved from one danger only to be thrust into another.

As Sen Lí Lăsoth waited for him to speak, Min La, uncertain what else to do, bowed and said, “I must thank you, my lord, for saving my life. I have troubled you greatly and you have my gratitude.”

When he glanced up at the young Lăsoth lord he saw that he had narrowed his eyes. Surprise and uncertainty clouded his face, not enough, however, to shake him. Min La could only hope that it was enough for him to find a way to wriggle out of this situation.

There was only one reason why the cousin of the Lăsoth Housemaster would be in such an unimportant mountain town so far from the capital: he was looking for the prince. Given the Lăsoth Housemaster’s relation to So Ga, Min La was inclined to believe that the Lăsoth intentions might not be as hostile as Táno Gín’s. But that didn’t make Sen Lí Lăsoth any less dangerous.

There was no avoiding the fact that So Ga was an incomparably important piece in the game of power that simmered always in the dark alleys between Houses and behind the Palace. Min La had known that it would only be a matter of time before some of the Houses — especially powerful ones like Lăsoth — learned that the king’s son was vulnerable. He had hoped that they would reach Osa Gate before then.

Maybe Sen Lí Lăsoth did intend to protect the crown prince. Or maybe he intended to use him to gain power for his House. But the fact was that anyone who would use So Ga to achieve his own goals also wouldn’t hesitate to kill him to achieve those same goals.

The simple truth was that Min La didn’t trust anyone to protect the prince. And as incapable as he was, at least he could trust his own intentions.

As he thought this, he remembered that not long ago he had been considering abandoning So Ga. But now, faced with the thought of surrendering him to the man who stood before him, he knew he never could.

Sen Lí opened his mouth to speak, but Min La said quickly, “I’m not sure who those men were. Maybe they thought I was stealing. I wasn’t my lord, I swear it. I never steal, I just beg. I might be poor, but I am honest.”

Sen Lí closed his mouth again and tilted his head.

Min La wrapped his arms around his bag. “Maybe they were trying to steal from me.”

“Tell me, friend,” Sen Lí Lăsoth said. “What’s your name?”

“My mother called my Minla,” he answered, deliberately obscuring the pronunciation. “Though she’s gone now. As are all the rest of my kin.”

“And your Housename?”

“I’ve never had a Housename, my lord. Born without it. Like being born without an arm, I suppose. Nothing to be done about it.”

Despite his easy tone, his heart pounded in his chest, partly from his prolonged flight from Táno Gín’s men, and partly from the precarious position in which he now stood.

“And what are you doing in Osenok?”

“Passing through.”

“To where?”

Min La let his gaze linger on the Lăsoth’s pointed face. Then he dropped his eyes as if embarrassed. “If you’ll forgive me, my lord, but what business is that of yours?”

Sen Lí started, and then he clasped his hands behind his back and offered Min La a thin smile. It was difficult to tell if he believed his act. Min La glanced over at the gate in the wall. It didn’t appear to have a lock and the men weren’t blocking his path to it. He wondered if they would stop him if he tried to leave. Gingerly, he put a little weight on his knee. A piercing needle of pain stabbed through his thigh, but it subsided after a moment.

Sen Lí took a step closer to him and Min La responded by taking a step back. “Tell me, young man,” he said. “How long had those men out there been chasing you?”

“I was walking through an alley over there—” Min La lifted an arm and pointed “—and then there they were. When I ran, they followed. I think they wanted to kill me.”

“Indeed?”

Min La held his bag tighter, but said nothing. A long silence passed during which Sen Lí Lăsoth’s gaze lingered on Min La’s neck, searching, he realized with a surge of panic, for So Ga’s seal. If they overpowered him in order to look for it they would find his brother’s martial seal instead and then the situation would change drastically, though it would be no less dangerous.

“Why would they want to kill you?” Sen Lí asked, still looking at Min La’s neck.

“Some types of people don’t need much reason for killing Houseless beggars.”

Sen Lí’s gaze returned to his face. “Those men,” he said carefully, “they have a reputation for hunting bandits—”

“I am no bandit, my lord.”

Sen Lí offered an amused bow of his head. “Forgive me,” he said. “I meant no offense.”

With a look of indignation, Min La stiffly returned his bow and turned toward the door. Sen Lí took a step after him. He did not block him, but seemed to be considering doing so. Min La held his bag tightly and looked at him.

“Where are you going, my friend?”

“Whatever it is between you and those men out there has nothing to do with me. I’d just as soon leave and see about finding some food, if it’s all the same to you.”

Sen Lí said nothing for several long seconds. He studied Min La, as if endeavoring to memorize his face. He wasn’t sure why, but this thought chilled him. There had been something about the way this man’s eyes moved that had unsettled him since they first shone gray and piercing from the shadows. In that moment it occurred to him that Sen Lí had a look about him like a man who was perpetually hungry. In the next moment he realized that this look reminded him of someone else: Íojin, the strange, half-mad creature they had met at the inn in Ŏklo’s lands.

At last Sen Lí held out a hand to one of his men who put a small purse in his open palm. Pulling out a large silver coin, he offered it to Min La.

He stared at it as it gleamed between Sen Lí’s long, thin fingers, reflecting like glass in the dusty yellow light. “What’s this?”

“Buy yourself a warm meal and a warm bed. And see a physician about your injury.”

After a moment’s consideration, Min La decided it would be best to accept the coin. Then he held it in both hands and bowed. “Thank you,” he said.

Sen Lí’s men had opened the gate and gone out to check the street, looking for more of the mercenaries, no doubt. Min La watched as they shook their heads at their master. Then he tucked the coin into his bag and gave another deep bow.

“Thank you again for saving my life,” he said.

“Think nothing of it,” Sen Lí answered, once again offering his thin smile.

As he limped back to the Osenok market — keeping to the alleys and giving the apothecary shop a wide berth — Min La considered the possibility that his ruse had done nothing to convince Sen Lí Lăsoth. If word had spread that the prince was loose in the wilds of Sona Gen, no doubt this news had been accompanied by the detail that So Ga Sona was traveling with a single sword. Even if Sen Lí believed that Min La was not the prince, he might have guessed that he was the prince’s guard. Perhaps he had been let go in order to lead them to So Ga.

When he caught sight of one of the Lăsoth swords in the shade near the bakery where the woman and her twins were still selling their morning bread, he knew he was right. He would have to lose them in the woods outside Osenok. With Táno Gín’s men also nearby, there was no time to find So Ga’s medicine or anything else they needed. In the end the entire trip had been a waste.

Defeated, Min La turned toward the town’s humble gate, his path winding through a narrow passage between a basket shop and a dyeworks. The hanging lengths of brightly colored cloth of pink and violet had made a tunnel through which he walked, his path and his outstretched hands tinted by the reflected sunlight in a way that reminded him of their brief trespass in the Orange Grove. Glancing up as he neared the end of the colored tunnel, he stopped in his tracks.

Standing there — his back to Min La, his eyes on the town’s gate — was a man wearing the distinctive uniform of Táno Gín’s mercenaries. He was taller than the others Min La had seen and his long hair was white at the roots. He stood with his hands behind his back, his feet planted wide, as if he did not intend to move until he had found what he was looking for.

The sound of Min La’s shoes on the gravel road had reached his ears. Shifting in his stance, he began to turn. Min La glanced around for somewhere to hide but all he saw were the fluttering, translucent lengths of pink and violet silk.

At that moment a great crash shattered the relative quiet in this narrow passage. Looking back, Min La saw the man sprawled on the ground, a large, middle-aged woman half on top of him, both of them covered in a thick coating of spilled flour.

She was berating him and apologizing to him in a breathless torrent of words. Her age and her size was making it difficult for her to remove herself from him (“I’m so sorry, my lord, my knees aren’t what they used to be”) while she was surrounded by reminders of what she had lost (“do you have the slightest idea what all this costs?”). People were coming to help untangle them and so Min La took advantage of the chaos. Soundlessly he slipped by, shielding himself with the growing crowd.

Reaching at last the Osenok town gate, he glanced back. Sen Lí Lăsoth stood a little apart from the commotion watching him with that same thin smile on his sharp face. When Min La met his gaze, Sen Lí put his hand on his chest and offered a bow, as if to say, “you’re welcome.”

It was some hours before Min La finally reached the Nal Dor. Already well past midday, the blue sky was covered in a tattered cotton shroud of shining white clouds that moved in a strong, cold wind, casting their shadows on the ground under his feet.

So Ga and Ŏnin greeted him with alarm; he had been gone hours longer than they had expected and was returning somewhat disheveled and with a noticeable limp. Min La explained what had happened while Ŏnin bound his knee in another foul smelling poultice. And after Ŏnin had finished and gone, Min La told So Ga about Sen Lí Lăsoth.

So Ga listened closely, his eyes on his knees and his brow furrowed.

“I have never met Sen Lí,” he said when Min La was done. “I do not know him.”

“Would you trust him?”

So Ga shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Would you trust Bo Han Lăsoth?”

“My uncle?” So Ga sighed and rubbed his pale hands over his pale face. He didn’t answer.

“In any event,” Min La said massaging the muscles in his thigh. “This makes tomorrow a little more complicated.”

“How so?”

“For one thing, I couldn’t get your medicine—”

“I feel fine.”

“—but more importantly, both Táno Gín and Sen Lí Lăsoth are out there looking for you.”

So Ga sighed again and glanced at the upper corner of their little cabin, in the direction of the mountain and its gleaming black fort. “But we’re so close.”

Before Min La could answer, Ŏnin returned, bursting through their door without even a knock.

“Little brothers,” he said breathlessly. “I think you should come.”

Wrapping themselves quickly in blue robes with hoods drawn low to shroud their faces, they followed the old monk up to the Nal Dor’s lantern-lit deck where many of the other monks were busy receiving and stowing an offering that had just been made. Afternoon was fading into evening and the day’s rites were drawing to an end. The crowd on the river bank had begun to thin and the candles flickering on the ground were growing brighter as the sky dimmed.

Ŏnin hurried to one of the monks and retrieved from him a small bundle wrapped in cloth. This he brought to Min La and gave it to him without a word, as if the bundle was expected to speak for itself. Unwrapping the knotted cloth, Min La found within a paper parcel fragrant with the herbal smell of medicine and, with it, a small folded message sealed with a wax imprint that Min La did not recognize.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

So Ga took the paper from him and examined the wax seal.

“Lăsoth,” he said, his voice sharp with surprise. Min La stared at him.

Ŏnin nodded solemnly. “Yes. The young lord Sen Lí Lăsoth has just offered his dead and also made an offering to the River Voyage.

Then he held out an arm, gesturing to a spot on the bank of the river.

Min La and So Ga both turned and saw there, apart from the crowd, a small clutch of armored swords and, standing at their head, the sharp-faced Sen Lí Lăsoth.

“Is that him?” So Ga whispered.

Min La nodded.

“Could he have followed you?”

Min La shook his head. “I think it’s possible that Sen Lí Lăsoth is a great deal smarter than anyone realizes.”

So Ga, who seemed always to fear being looked upon by a large crowd — a habit from his days as a hidden, masked prince, Min La assumed — turned away quickly and went back down to their cabin, Min La limping after him. Once inside with the door closed, he broke the Lăsoth seal and unfolded the message.

He seemed to read it many times over, his fingers moving down the page and then returning to the top, as if to be sure he hadn’t missed anything. Then, with a troubled look, he handed the letter to Min La.

Taking it, Min La read it quickly. It surprised him to see how simple and direct it was. Sen Lí was offering “the young traveler” safe passage to his uncle’s estate in Ŏno Soth. Though he did not name So Ga in the letter and he did not indicate that he knew who he was, it was otherwise very straightforward and bare of artifice.

“I cannot believe that the Lăsoth House would wish me ill,” So Ga said as Min La folded the message and returned it to him.

“Because the Housemaster is your uncle?”

“Is that naive of me?”

Min La thought for a moment. “Which is more important to Bo Han Lăsoth? House or family?”

“Bo Han adheres to the ancient ways.”

“He probably doesn’t mean you ill. But it is a possibility that he intends to use you.”

“Against my father, you mean?”

“Perhaps. Is that something he would do?”

So Ga shook his head. “I don’t know.” Then he looked at Min La with a pained expression. “What should I do?”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to return to the Palace. But I don’t know which path to take.”

“Well,” Min La began, stretching his aching knee. “You can accept Sen Lí Lăsoth’s offer of safe passage to his cousin’s estate and hope that Bo Han’s sense of loyalty is greater than his desire to reinforce the power of his House.”

“What about the Koda House? Did they not help us before when they told us that Táno Gín’s men were nearby?”

Min La nodded once. “I think they have been keeping an eye on us.”

“Why? It doesn’t serve them.”

“I don’t know Koda well. But even if they are helping you out of loyalty to your father, it can only go so far. They cannot afford a House war and so they will not try to use you and they will only help you as long as they can do so undetected.”

So Ga looked disappointed. He glanced again at the folded letter in his hand and then at the parcel of medicine. He murmured, “There is no family in the Palace.”

“Or,” Min La said, “we can continue alone. You know you can trust Ko Gŏth Enlin, after all.”

“Provided we can make it to Osa Gate.”

Min La laughed darkly. “Yes, provided we can make it up the mountain. Although I think Koda’s invisible aid might at least make that more of a possibility.”

“Is that what you think I should do?”

Min La shook his head. “I cannot answer this for you. It is not my life they want.”

“I want to trust my uncle,” So Ga said, squeezing the letter so tightly that the thick paper began to crumple in his hand.

“Would he kill you if it served his House?”

So Ga started at the directness of the question. But then he took a breath and shook his head. “I don’t know. Lăsoth has no loyalty to the throne. To them — to my uncle — the throne serves the Houses. And despite my blood, I am not Lăsoth, but Sona.”

“Would he save you for his sister’s sake?”

“I had considered that,” So Ga replied quietly, his eyes darkening. A look of such complete sorrow overtook him that Min La regretted the question.

So Ga sat in silence for several minutes staring at the parcel and the message as if the answer was hidden in them and he had only to decipher it. Min La pitied him but he knew of no other way to help him than to stay by his side no matter what happened. The only thing he could do was to try to keep him alive. There was nothing else a Houseless beggar could do for a royal prince.

After a while, Min La said, “If you don’t know—”

“I do know,” So Ga said resolutely. He turned and gave Min La a warm, tired smile. “I know what I have to do.”

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Dawn spread across the fragile sky, cracks of pink breaking the night blues as Min La made his way down the road to the town of Osenok. He had exchanged his monk’s robes for a golt of green and a heavy coat of dark blue. Despite So Ga’s protestations, Min La had left the knife with him. Without Min La there to protect him, the prince needed something in case their pursuers chose to ignore the sanctity of the River Voyage. So Ga had not liked letting him go unarmed, but Min La felt better leaving him with steel, if nothing else.

Though he moved with caution, he also felt a certain renewed sense of confidence. After all, he could see Osa Gate now. The sharp edges of the fort had squared a corner of the mountain on which it was perched, as if a piece of black crystal had grown from the thick range. In the brilliant, crisp sunrise he imagined he could see it glint, like the edge of a blade.

Osenok was not a large village, but it benefited both from the proximity of the fort and also, more recently, from the proximity of the Koda House. Their work in Sona Gen had made travel, and therefore trade, easier. Osenok was quickly becoming a common stop on the road from Ŭthol Na to the capital, especially those who preferred river travel. And through it moved a great many of the travelers who lived in the Osa Len Mountains, who had become more willing to venture from the security of their House’s villages and into the wider world of Sona Gen. Koda’s influence had been significant, even if they were countered now and again by the meddling of Ŏklo. This thought returned to Min La’s mind the faces of Nŏl and Hino Son. By now the wedding of Ona Lín Ŏklo and Rin Holok So Hoth would have taken place and the two Houses would be joined by this. Min La found himself wondering how Nŏl was faring in his efforts to curtail the corruption that had festered in his House under the reign of the odious Von Ol. In that moment, too, he remembered Sivo Hin Ŏklo, the royal officer at Osa Gate. Glancing up at the mountain, he wondered if Nŏl’s efforts would have been able to extend as far as that.

The gates of Osenok had been open for some time when Min La arrived. He presented himself wordlessly as he always did, as a Houseless man alone in the world. He considered, as the guards looked him over and said nothing, that this was no longer true.

He had not brought all of their gold with him, but only a few pieces, in case he needed to bribe someone over and above the cost of the medicine. Not willing to burden the monks anymore than they already had, he also wanted to purchase food and other supplies, anything they might need as they made the final climb up the mountain. This thought caught in his mind, but he brushed it away.

A young woman at a bakery just inside the village gate directed him to the village’s apothecary. They had two in Osenok, she informed him proudly while two of her children — a boy and a girl in matching ivory golts — clutched at her skirts, their faces more powdered with flour than their mother’s. She was a bright-faced woman with large honey-colored eyes and a unkempt knot of thick red curls. Two tiny blue dots were painted on her cheekbone. Looking again, Min La realized that her children were the same age and were identical. Her first to survive were twins, no wonder her eyes shone with such light.

“Míkoth is good if you’re injured, they say,” she explained as she put steaming rolls into a paper bag for him. “But if it’s an illness that ails you’ll want the Dol Heno brothers.”

“Dol Heno?” he asked, paying her.

“It’s an old House, you’ll not have heard of it. A lot of them become monks, bless them. Not a lot of Dol Heno babies in general. They like their learning, I suppose. Anyway, they’ve got a shop to the east, there, on the other side of the teahouse. The teahouse is new, you should have a look at it. They say it’s just like the ones in Ŏno Soth.”

He thanked her and took the warm paper sack, tucking it into the bag across his chest.

The teahouse was easy enough to find, it seemed to be a popular attraction in the town. Dawn’s pinkish sunlight colored the wooden structure in warm hues, while the crisp lilac awning the shaded doorway shone like a lake of still water. In imitation of the popular custom in Ŏno Soth, little wooden tables and chairs had been arranged in the front of the teahouse and each was occupied by a leisurely visitor sipping tea or coffee, eyes sparkling in wonder at this novel new luxury. It was not as fine as the capital’s teahouses, but Min La imagined that the people of Osenok would continue to be proud of it, regardless. Surveying the people at the tables he saw more than one pale green Koda cloak. But, he noted with relief, there seemed to be no one among the crowd dressed in the recognizable uniform of Táno Gín’s mercenaries.

Tá Nom Koda had whispered to him yesterday that Táno Gín’s men had been seen in the area. He had said that the Koda House could do nothing to check them without calling attention to the fact that they were aware of what Táno Gín hunted. It had troubled Min La to hear Tá Nom again speak to him as if he was the prince. But he had been relieved to know that So Ga was still hidden in this way. Tá Nom had told him as clearly as he could where Táno Gín’s men had been seen. But, he had warned him, they did not stay in one place for long.

“Make haste up the mountain,” he had said. “Ko Gŏth Enlin can protect you in ways that we cannot.”

Yesterday, according to Tá Nom Koda, Táno Gín’s men had been nowhere near Osenok. Still, Min La had to be careful. One of the reasons he had come alone was because he believed that they would, by now, know to look for a pair of young men on the road. Min La alone would perhaps escape their notice even if they were here.

Just as the bakery woman had described, the little apothecary stood on the other side of the bustling teahouse, as if resting in its shadow. A shorter building, also made of wood, but much older, it had recently been painted a wash of white which, together with the brown curtains covering its doorway, presented a calming countenance, like a gentle face framed by a soft hood.

After glancing around one last time, Min La cautiously opened the curtain and stepped inside.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the lantern-lit interior; all was quite black at first, as if the interior of the shop was filled only with darkness. From within the dark a voice spoke: “Good morning, young master.”

The greeting had the hint of a question. Min La blinked several times and then finally found himself standing before a middle-aged man with a trimmed brown beard and short brown hair, in the Srenléthan style. He wore an ivory golt and a coat of pure white. As Min La looked at him, the man bowed lightly and began taking off his coat. Behind him another man, similar in every way, stood near a wall covered in tiny wooden drawers, also wearing an ivory golt, but over it a dark brown apron.

The man in the apron put his hand on his chest and bowed. “I am Nomo Dol Heno,” he said. “And this is my brother In No. Something is ailing you, young master?”

Min La, a little taken aback to find himself the only person in the apothecary and also the subject of such particular service, remembered the glowing praise the bakery woman had given to these brothers and tried to calm the paranoid flutter in his chest.

“I have come to purchase medicine,” he answered simply, with a humble bow. “For my brother, not myself.”

“Ah,” answered In No, tying on his own apron. As he did so his brother took a short candle and went around the room lighting several other lanterns. Before long the large space was brilliantly illuminated. This front room, Min La saw, seemed to be mainly storage and not preparation. Most of the wall space was covered by tiny drawers and cabinets with rich glass doors. He found himself feeling relieved that he had brought extra gold. The far wall was broken by another doorway, framed decoratively by brown curtains, which led, it seemed, to a kind of storage space and also to an open door into the alley behind the apothecary.

“You must forgive us,” In No went on. “You are our first guest this morning.”

Min La bowed his head a little, unsure what else to say.

“Do you know what you need specifically, or…”

Min La had long had So Ga’s medications committed to memory. He recited this long list now while the Dol Heno brothers watched him with growing amazement.

“This is all for your brother?” Nomo Dol Heno asked glancing at In No in what looked like nervous surprise.

Min La nodded.

“His lungs?”

He nodded again.

In No clicked his tongue as his brother turned to the drawers. “It is a difficult condition to manage. Was he born with the ailment?”

Min La hesitated, watching as quantities of herbs and powders were weighed and gathered together upon a large sheet of waxed paper.

“He was sick when he was a child,” he answered at last. “He never completely recovered.”

In No clicked his tongue again and Nomo, still busy with the drawers, joined him.

“Well,” In No said, “at least he has a good brother to look after him.” And patting Min La’s shoulder, he gestured to the counter where the medication was accumulating in a little fragrant mountain upon the paper.

Min La understood and began digging through his bag for the gold. But then he stopped and said, “Do you have gindun?”

They both looked at him alarmed. Then In No turned to Nomo, who was folding the large paper into a parcel. “Ah, because it can be—” and he patted his own chest.

Nomo nodded and said. “Indeed it can be.”

Turning to Min La, In No answered, “Yes, but Osenok law states that we cannot sell gindun to someone who is…” He pursed his lips and glanced at the floor.

“Houseless,” Min La finished. With a twinge of embarrassment, he began to fish around with one hand in his bag while he said, more to the floor than to the man, “I have— if it’s—”

But In No reached out and grasped Min La’s wrist. “My boy,” he said, his eyes shining. “Please do not demean yourself.”

Then he went to his brother and leaned close, whispering. Min La felt his chest tighten, he found himself regretting asking for the gindun. Nomo nodded as he listened. He put up a hand, forefinger and thumb extended, an inch or so away from each other. Then he nodded again and dropped his hand.

“A small vial,” In No said, turning to Min La. “Enough for one small dose for one person. That is all I can offer.”

He bowed in thanks.

“We keep it locked in the back. Just a moment.” In No left and Nomo, in silence, finished binding the little package of medication into a parcel, using brown string to seal it. Then he leaned on his counter and sighed, smiling at Min La warmly.

After a moment, In No returned empty-handed.

“You are hopeless,” Nomo observed, looking at his brother’s bewildered expression. “You watched me put it in the cabinet last night.”

“It’s the key I can’t find.”

Nomo blinked several times, then he began patting his chest until, with a barking laugh, he withdrew the key from under his golt where it hung on a string of braided silk.

In No laughed, too, and extended a hand for it. “And you call me absentminded.”

He turned to go back to the shop’s little storeroom, but, standing at the curtained doorway, he froze. Nomo said his name but he did not move. Min La felt his blood cool so quickly that a violent shiver coursed through his body. He clenched his hands into fists.

“In No…” Nomo said again. “In No, we do not—”

Turning, In No put up a hand and silenced Nomo. Then he said loudly, “Brother, you should come and show me where you’ve hidden it. You know I can’t stand it when you rearrange things every other day.”

Nomo blinked several times. Then he clasped his hands before him and nodded, his lips pressed together tightly, his face pale.

In No went to Min La and clutched him by the shoulders. Staring into his eyes with chilling intensity, he leaned close and whispered, “Run.”

Out of habit, Min La reached his hand into his bag only to remember that he had left the knife with So Ga. A sense of calm overcame him. As if he had been holding his breath and now that what he feared most had come to pass, he could finally breathe.

In No dropped a paper on the floor as he and his brother disappeared through the curtained doorway. Without thinking, Min La picked it up. Then he scooped the parcel off the counter and ducked through the curtained doorway after them. The brothers were clutched together in front of a cabinet arguing loudly about the proper way to use a key. They did not turn around.

Yellow light poured through the open back door together with the chill of winter and the sounds and smells of the teahouse next door. Min La went through cautiously, but the alley was empty.

Standing for a moment in the unseasonably warm sunlight, Min La glanced at the paper In No had dropped. On it had been written a list of ingredients, the precise ingredients that made up So Ga’s medicine. A vague understanding of what had happened formed quickly in his mind. With a little exhale of anger, he crumpled the paper and dropped it onto the cold dirt alley.

Behind him, he suddenly heard the voice of Nomo: “You’ve just missed him. Can you believe it: he’s stolen from us!”

The calm that had washed over him immediately gave way to panic. Min La’s heart hammered in his chest. He pressed himself against the back wall of the apothecary and considered his options while he tucked the parcel into his bag.

“Where is he?” spoke a familiar voice, the same he had heard in the temple, belonging, he assumed, to Táno Gín himself. Part of him wanted to peek inside, to look at him, this fabled mercenary captain. All this time running from him and he still had not seen the man who hunted them with his own eyes.

“Didn’t you see him?” asked Nomo Dol Heno. “I assume he just bolted out the front like a common beggar thief.”

Táno Gín began to give orders. When Min La heard him tell someone to check the back, he detached himself from the apothecary wall and broke into a swift walk. He couldn’t run, running would attract attention. But the alley was long and there were no places to hide oneself without ducking into the teahouse. Min La suddenly remembered when he had watched the orphan boys in Rensoth dodge city guards by weaving in and out of a crowded teahouse. The doubling of the situation struck him. As if now that he was near the end he had somehow come again to the beginning. He found himself wondering if Héothenin occasionally looped a path.

“Captain!” a voice behind him called.

He’d been spotted. Without turning, he gripped the bag tightly and broke into a run.

The alley opened onto a street which turned left to lead back to the main Osenok market and right to lead to a courtyard of gravel built around a well. He went right, wove around the well, and then ducked into another alley, this one squeezing between two sets of walls that surrounded what looked like apartments of some kind, both of which were only partly built and otherwise empty. Halfway down the alley, he heard a flurry of boots behind him.

“Here!” called a voice.

They were too fast and the town was too unfamiliar to him. He wondered if the wild would be better. He wondered if he should race them back to the boat. Would the mercenaries of Táno Gín respect a River Voyage? They hadn’t respected the temple of Ávoth. Even if they did, wouldn’t that just trap them on the boat forever?

The alley had become too narrow and he had to turn to the side to squeeze through. The man behind him recognized that he wouldn’t fit and turned back. He was going around, Min La realized. And he paused.

His brother’s voice came then, a welcome sound: “You are small, little shadow, and not particularly strong. Speed is all you have. Hesitate and die.”

Min La slipped as quickly as he could through the last narrow length of the alley. He burst from it as if expelled and staggered into a empty avenue between rows of closely built wooden houses, each bordered by a low wall. A woman hanging her laundry glanced over her short wall at him with indifference, then went back to her work. To his right, he saw the mercenary at the end of the road, running for him at full speed.

“Use what you have, little shadow.”

Twisting the bag onto his back, Min La pulled himself up onto the short wall in front him. The woman gave a surprised yelp and dropped a sopping wet golt. As fast as he dared, he ran along the top of the wall until it ended at the rear of the house. Then he hopped to the adjacent wall and followed it around its house until he had looped back to the street where he had started, the unfinished apartments towering in front of him.

Doubting himself a little, he eyed the distance from his wall to the one surrounding the apartment. That wall was much higher, but he could sense that he would reach it. As he leapt, the world quieted and his focus narrowed. Time slowed, extending the length of a breath to what felt like minutes. He was flying, and the sensation returned memories to him that were at once sweet and overwhelming. But then his hands caught the rough stone and his mind settled. That old familiar feeling of triumph rippled through him when his hands found purchase exactly where he had aimed. With more energy than he was used to, he lifted himself up easily and stood upon the high wall. Cautiously, he made his way along the top of it until he was looking down into the gravel courtyard with the well. The mercenaries were nowhere to be seen.

Using the row of stones that bordered the gate in the wall, Min La eased himself back down to the ground. His best option — his only option — was to hide and then try to sneak back to the boat unseen. Glancing over his shoulder for any sign of his pursuers, Min La decided to go back the way he had come, across the courtyard to the alley. But this time he would turn towards the market in hopes that the crowd would provide sufficient camouflage. As he made his way across the courtyard, he undid his hair, which had come loose, and wondered how hard he could run on his bad knee.

He heard the footsteps behind him before he saw the shapes in front of him. It shocked him how quickly he was surrounded. There were four men, golts of dark gray suede and dark cloaks that looked almost blue in the sunlight. These men moved and hunted as if they shared a mind. More and more it seemed to him that time was repeating. Last time, however, it was one of So Ga’s bodyswords who had fallen in a back alley of Rensoth. And there was no one here to save Min La. Suddenly, he realized that he was also one of So Ga’s bodyswords. As he stood frozen in the middle of the courtyard, one of the mercenaries gestured to the others. It was either a signal to attack or a signal to wait. When they didn’t move, Min La knew which and so, without another thought, he put his shoulder down and ran.

Speed had always been his only real strength. Speed and agility. That he was small afforded him a unique ability to outmaneuver even the strongest armored man. Running at the two men in front of him, Min La ducked and slipped under the outstretched arms of one while driving his shoulder into the chest of the other.

The two behind shifted into action and ran after him. Min La had been slowed by his collision but he had not fallen. Glancing back, he continued to run, certain that they would abandon open pursuit in the crowded market.

But then his momentum was brutally arrested when a boot connected with his leg and sent him sprawling to his side. Despite himself, he cried out in shock and pain. One of the men had managed to land a kick on his bad knee and he lay gasping. Adrenaline and fear pulled him to his feet, but he nearly fell again when he tried to put weight on his leg. There would be no running now.

A familiar fragrance filled Min La’s nose and he saw that the medicine parcel had fallen out of his bag and lay open on the ground, its contents blowing away in the winter breeze, mingling with the cold dirt of the road and the powdery gravel of the courtyard.

His vision blurred as panic sent a hot rush of blood throughout his shivering body. He had no options. His only strength had been destroyed and his brother’s voice was silent. Absurdly, he glanced around for signs of a rescuer. If indeed Héothenin had looped his path back to this point, surely there would be a rescuer, just as he had been the rescuer before. He could not believe that he had been brought here to die. What would become of So Ga if he died? Perhaps he could stay with the monks. But for how long? How would he ever be able to return to his father? So Ga still needed him; he could not have been brought here to die.

When the other figures entered the courtyard he believed, at first, that he was imagining it. They moved so soundlessly, so cleanly, appearing like the Ădol’s attendants from the stories, slipping through the barriers between worlds. Two flashes of steel, two throats slit, then confusion as the other mercenaries tried to figure out what was happening.

Just as Min La was about to take advantage of the confusion to make a hobbling-run for the market, hands grasped him around the shoulders and dragged him inside the walls of one of the apartments. He kicked with his good leg and twisted his hips, but two strong men had him by the arms and he was still dazed from panic.

The gate in the apartment’s wall closed tightly and the hands released him. It was much colder in the shade, this was the first thing Min La noticed as he struggled to catch his breath. The pain in his knee nearly caused him to topple when the hands released him. Clutching his bag tightly, he turned with wide eyes to stare threateningly at the men who had dragged him here, like an animal forced into a corner. But all the men turned away from him, many even turned their backs. They seemed to be going out of their way to avoid looking at him, as if they believed that looking upon his face would cause them to go blind.

It was then that a young man emerged from the shadows.

Within the shaded space inside the quiet yard enclosed by the wall, the man seemed to wear shadow. His face, sharp as a crow’s, was almost entirely obscured even though sunlight spilled over his long brown cloak. When he turned to glance at his men who stood by the closed gate, the light caught his eyes which shone gray and alert. Min La found that he felt no less threatened by the sharp eyes of this stranger than he did by the swords on the other side of the wall.

“They will likely take care of their own dead, my lord,” one of the swords said quietly to the sharp-faced man who turned to glance at him. “We have otherwise escaped notice, they do not seem to know we are here, and we are certain that no one saw you.”

“Our master would not want this much attention drawn to our presence here,” the sharp-faced man said. His voice was different from what Min La would have expected; weaker, perhaps, or restrained. “Do not kill any more of them.”

The sword bowed and offered an apology that seemed more fearful than the man’s weakened tone demanded. Then he, too, turned his back to Min La.

The sharp-faced man, however, did not seem to fear looking upon him. Instead, he put his hand upon his chest and bowed his head.

“I assure you,” he said quietly. “You are quite safe. My men and I mean you no harm.”

“Who are you?” Min La demanded, breathless.

The man lifted his head. Only his lips were illuminated as they formed an inscrutable smile.

“I am Sen Lí Lăsoth.”

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When Namo Non lifted the flap of Táno Gín’s tent, the captain expected him to be bringing news of the two boys — it was two, they knew this now because of what Ŏlo Hin had seen — but instead the man fidgeted for a moment before bowing, which could only mean one thing.

“Captain,” he began, but Táno Gín quieted him with a gesture.

“Bring him in,” he said, and poured himself tea.

His tent was a simple one, and quite small. But it was enough to contain a thin mattress on a short wooden frame, as well as one table, one short stool, and a stove. It was before the stove that Táno Gín was sitting, the stool drawn close. A pot sputtered and gurgled on top and the door was partly ajar, spilling warmth into the enclosed space that cut the building, wet chill that had become increasingly bitter.

He was not wearing his cloak but had it draped across his knees. The white roots of his long hair shone orange in the firelight producing the impression that his head was crowned with embers. This was the image the visitor received when Namo Non again opened the tent and showed him in.

Táno Gín knew the man by name, but had never met him before. He was Hŏ Dan1 Orin Han and came from the south, from his master’s estate, to serve as messenger and perhaps spy. Táno Gín had wondered when Orin Han would make such a move, no doubt Housemaster Ulno Ban was growing restless in the absence of news. Or perhaps Hŏ Dan had been sent by the Housemaster’s second, Doma. In either case, he was an unwelcome burden.

He bore his high status within the Orin Han House in his fine silk golt, embroidered in gold along the collar, and in his thick wool cloak lined with white rabbit fur. Despite the cloak, he still shivered in the chilly tent reminding Táno Gín that he was from the south, and also that he was not the kind to allow himself to acclimate to discomfort. With some hesitation, he peeled off a pair of glossy black leather gloves as he entered the tent.

Táno Gín did not stand to greet Hŏ Dan and he, in turn, did not bow. He clasped his hands behind his back and scanned the tent’s interior for a place to sit. Táno Gín motioned to Namo Non, who bowed quickly and left, returning almost immediately with another short stool. This he placed near the stove. Then he bowed and took up a position on the other side of the tent’s opening. Táno Gín gestured to the stool. Hŏ Dan offered his teeth in something like a smile and then gingerly sat upon it. The firelight made his blue-green silk shine like a pool of wet ink. Táno Gín did not offer tea.

“My lord Táno Gín,” Hŏ Dan began, but he was interrupted.

“I am Houseless. I am no one’s lord.”

“Ah, yes. Force of habit, I’m afraid. Captain Táno Gín, I have not come to scold you on behalf of our master. Indeed, I was not sent from Gŏhíth, you understand, but from Ŏno Soth.”

Táno Gín’s gaze flickered over the man. “You were in the capital?”

“Yes.” He showed his teeth again and drew forth a sealed envelope from his golt pocket, handing it casually to the captain. “I have been sent with this.”

Táno Gín glanced at it, recognizing immediately the seal of the Sonen House. Though it startled him to see a message from Sonen borne by a member of Orin Han. He had known for some time the two were aligned somehow, but had always assumed it was a carefully guarded secret.

Hŏ Dan seemed to read his surprise on his fire-lit face and offered a light laugh. “Oh it’s nothing like that,” he said. “My master has need of his man. You know the one.”

Táno Gín’s confusion deepened. “Ŏlo Hin?”

The man made a gesture with the sealed message, to suggest that he read it. And so Táno Gín finally plucked it from his hands and tore it open.

It was true, the message did nothing more than request Ŏlo Hin’s return to the capital.

“Our master,” Hŏ Dan repeated, “has need of him.”

Táno Gín considered that. “Your master? Is not your master the Housemaster of Orin Han, the prince of Gŏhíth? This letter is from Balo Sonen.”

Hŏ Dan smiled, lips covering his teeth. Then he said, “You will obey, of course?”

“Impossible. I have need of Ŏlo Hin. He has seen with his own eyes the one we hunt.”

“I have heard that he has also caused you some trouble.” And Hŏ Dan frowned, sticking out his lower lip.

So, he had heard about the dead Folo Dol sword. Of course he had. Táno Gín said nothing and sipped his tea.

“Will you not offer me some tea?” Hŏ Dan asked, smiling.

“I have only the one cup.”

“Ah.” Hŏ Dan’s smile remained unmoved. “Pity.”

“I will send Ŏlo Hin back to the capital when we have finished our task.”

“No, that will not do.” He clicked his tongue and smoothed his long golt over his legs. “He is needed immediately.”

“Perhaps you do not understand. I require Ŏlo Hin with me. He possesses knowledge I will need in order to complete my task.”

Hŏ Dan laughed lightly, muttering, “complete your task.” Then, shaking his head, he pulled another folded, sealed paper from his pocket. This one was not sealed with the mark of the Sonen House or the Orin Han House, or any House at all. The imprint in the black wax was blank.

“My master has considered that,” Hŏ Dan said, holding the paper out to Táno Gín.

He took it slowly, somewhat concerned about its contents. But inside he found only a list of herbs and—

“This is medicine.”

Hŏ Dan nodded. “Indeed. Apparently, your quarry can’t get far without the things on that list. If you check the apothecaries in the villages around here, I’m sure you’ll find what you’re looking for.” Then he smiled and leaned forward. “Far be it from me to tell you how to do your job.” He pointed at the message, to a section that Táno Gín had not yet unfolded. “There’s a bit more.”

The final section of the message read simply: “Do not enter Osa Gate.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Táno Gín said, rereading the message.

Hŏ Dan stood suddenly, gathering his cloak around his shoulders and putting his shining gloves back on. “It’s simple, really. Kill the little prince before he enters Osa Gate.”

“He said that? ‘Kill the prince’?”

“Does he have to? Are those not your orders?”

“Why must I not enter Osa Gate?”

“It is not my place to know the details, of course, but we do know that the fort is crucial to our master’s plans. It must remain untouched. Ko Gŏth Enlin, too. You mustn’t touch him.”

Táno Gín stared at Hŏ Dan and then looked again at the paper in his hands. There was a thread of contradiction within that he could not quite place and it worried him. He was used to his orders coming from Orin Han, not Sonen. Though he knew Sonen directed most of Orin Han’s actions. Still, his brother Sono Gín was not in the hands of Sonen, but Orin Han. If he was to obey only one—

Hŏ Dan said, “Perhaps you do not yet understand, captain. You have already failed. But if you can somehow prevent the last little prince from reaching Osa Gate, perhaps they will only take one of your brother’s legs, or one of this arms. I suppose it depends on the old man’s mood. Maybe he’ll take one of both. But at least he’ll be alive, right? However, if something happens at Osa Gate…” He let the sentence trail dramatically into silence and for a fraction of a second Táno Gín considered killing him.

But he said merely, “You’ll find Ŏlo Hin on patrol to the north. Take him and go.”

That evening, Min La sat with So Ga in their cabin eating their last dinner in the Nal Dor and in the monks’ company.

“I will miss them,” So Ga said abruptly. “Is it wrong that a part of me wishes I could stay with them, maybe even shave my head and grow old in the service of Ávoth? It seems a simpler life.”

Min La nodded. “It does.”

“Have you ever considered it? After you were—?” He stopped short, then averted his eyes.

Min La offered him a reassuring smile. “Many times. But it never seemed like the right choice.”

“What do you mean?”

He chewed a potato thoughtfully and searched for the words. “One shouldn’t become a monk in order to hide, I don’t think. It’s too important a calling to be diluted that way. I think doing a good thing for the wrong reasons will warp the goodness in the end, and make it ugly.”

So Ga watched him speak with a small smile upon his face, but he said nothing.

“What?” Min La demanded.

“Nothing.” He shook his head. Then, after a pause, he added, “You are wiser than you look.”

“Are you saying I look stupid?”

“Yes,” So Ga answered solemnly. “Very.”

Min La raised his potato as if to throw it at him, while the little prince smiled and hid behind his arms. At that moment a knock came and Ŏnin quietly entered their cabin.

Min La lowered the potato but So Ga could not conceal the mirthful smile on his face. Ŏnin looked from one to the other and gave a solemn bow.

“It is good to see your spirits restored. We will be saddened to see you go.”

“We have burdened you long enough,” Min La replied. “And the kindness you have shown us is beyond what we could ever repay.”

So Ga smiled as he watched Min La speak.

The monk took a step closer to them and said, “It is another matter that has brought me this evening. I had told you that we would give your brother a final dose of medication before you leave us, but alas, we have no more ingredients.”

Min La’s face fell. He thought for a moment. “Is there a village nearby?”

“There are several. The largest is called Osenok and we will reach by morning. They will have a well-stocked apothecary.”

Min La nodded. “I will collect what we need in the morning and then my brother and I will leave immediately after.”

Ŏnin smiled and bowed. “If that is what you wish,” he said. And his gaze lingered on Min La before he left the little cabin, a sorrowful look on his aged face.

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Sixth day of the River Voyage

All monks of Ávoth maintain boats. The rivers are as much a home to them as their tidy blue temples.

Before they departed, Min La learned that the village in which they had found themselves — the one where the monks had labored to protect and also to heal them — was in a little village called Tŭbar1, meaning “gray cover” as the sky there was so often enclosed in the gray cotton shroud of storm clouds or else in a thick fog from the river.

The monks’ boat was named Nal Dor, “blue hand”. It was a fitting name. The hull was painted blue entirely, from bow to stern, with the name and a fine image of Ávoth’s head painted crisply upon the transom.

Fresh white rigging matched the crisp white mainsail which had been painted, on the luff side, with the tall figure of the mournful Ădol, his bare feet nearly touching the shining blue boom.

The many cabins below deck had been arranged and outfitted in much the same way as the modest rooms at the temple. There was also a simple galley for preparing meals. Min La and So Ga had been given a cabin nearest the galley, deep in the bowels of the Nal Dor, where the two young brothers could feel safe. Ŏnin had seen to this and had made a point of showing Min La just how difficult it would be for anyone to reach them. This cabin had been the least desirable to the monks as it had no porthole. But, as Ŏnin had suspected, this made it particularly pleasing to Min La.

They spent the first two days of the River Voyage recovering. So Nan — or So Ga, as his brother called him — slept frequently but seemed to recover his appetite quickly. His color and his energy soon followed and though he was loathe to be parted from his brother, he did submit to another dose of medicine on the first evening. With the permission of his brother, he soon took up a position in the galley helping old Brother Noba prepare meals for them all.

Min La took longer to recover, as Ŏnin suspected he would. Driven to the brink of exhaustion, he had slept even longer than his brother. Waking, he had not seemed rested, but instead moved fitfully below deck, standing occasionally at the foot of the ladder gazing up at the pale daylight as if it was threatening him.

His spirits seemed to improve when So Ga showed signs of recovery. For a time, however, Min La avoided his brother, keeping apart from him though close enough to watch him. Ŏnin knew that he still blamed himself for what had happened at the temple. Ŏnin believed that there was very little in this world for which Min La did not blame himself.

On the fourth day So Ga took food to Min La — who had skipped several meals — where he sat on a stool near the foot of the ladder that led up to the Nal Dor’s deck. Pulling him by the arm, he took him up into the brilliant blue twilight and they remained there, talking quietly for some time. Thereafter Min La’s behavior seemed more at ease. He began to eat again, perched near his brother, and even allowed himself to be put to work by the monks. Ŏnin was glad for it. Though it seemed the young man was always near exhaustion no matter how much he slept. Perhaps that would only change once they reached their destination.

Every evening the Nal Dor would move north down the Osa Lí River, and every morning they would dock and erect the temple tent where pilgrims could come to offer their dead. This was a large, open structure made by stretching blue waxed linen over a simple birch wood frame. This frame was easily disassembled into smaller pieces which could then be stored below deck and easily assembled within an hour in the morning. Min La proved particularly adept at this. As his knee improved, the monks found themselves relying on him to erect the blue temple tent every morning.

Inside the tent, just under the blue canopy, they hung the pilgrim tapestry of Ávoth. Cushions were placed throughout where the monks could sit. Silver bowls shone in the winter sun as the pilgrims placed their dead inside. Usually these were simple folded papers, but sometimes they were sealed with wax, or even tied with ribbon. Just outside the tent hung dozens of blue lanterns — these also decorated the deck of the Nal Dor. Boxes of candles were set out for the pilgrims to use. Of all the supplies carried by the monks on the River Voyage, candles took up most of their storage space. These were short, fat candles which required no holder. Lighted by pilgrims, they could be placed on the ground. In time the path to the monks’ blue tent would be lined with fire. The monks would always use these candles to maintain the lanterns on the Nal Dor as a way of keeping Ávoth’s fires lit. The rest were left on the ground when the tent was taken down and the boat moved on. Many would come to use them to light their own household candles and lanterns for their Inner Rooms. Despite the enormous quantity they carried, the candle boxes were still carefully rationed to ensure that the monks didn’t run out before the end of the River Voyage.

On the morning of the sixth day, Min La had sat quietly in his borrowed blue monk’s robes after erecting the tent. So Ga was still sleeping below deck and he was waiting for him to wake to eat with him. He sat with his hood drawn low and his back to the tapestry of Ávoth. He didn’t even seem to notice when the pilgrims began to arrive.

Presently, a rising whisper moved through the quiet crowd on the bank of the river. The people started and turned, each straining to see behind them without behaving in a way that was inappropriate for the setting. Ŏnin, from his cushion near the front of the tent, watched with interest as the crowd parted and a tall man appeared wearing a blue golt and a coat of pale green, the color of the Koda House. The man’s long face was severe but calm, his long hair moved in the chill winter breeze. He rested his hand upon the pommel of his sword, the other behind his back.

Ŏnin knew him at once. This was Tá Nom, the heir to the Koda Housemaster, the shrewd and wise Gin Ja Koda. Tá Nom was her eldest son, the one most like his noble father. Several men were with him, but no women. It seemed Gin Ja had not come herself, but had sent her son to deliver the Koda dead.

Tá Nom and his House had earned a reputation in this part of the Osa Len Mountains. There was, of course, the prestige of being given charge of the royal silver mines, but they were also known to guard closely their roads and villages. Koda lands were among the safest in Sona Gen. Their new villages were prosperous and their dealings with other Houses were fair. As a result, Tá Nom was admired and respected. Ŏnin was not surprised to see him. Many of the noble Houses chose to deliver their dead with pomp and ostentation, as a display of their piety. Others chose to do so quietly in an effort to avoid the same. Tá Nom Koda, as usual, did neither. He made a point of approaching the River Voyage as any man would. But he also made a point of being seen. This would be the influence of Gin Ja, Ŏnin knew. Tá Nom’s behavior reflected on their House. And if their House maintained a noble, respected reputation they could more easily keep their power. If they remained powerful, they could continue to govern their lands well enough to benefit all who lived upon them. There was no room for false modesty in the court of Koda.

Ŏnin gestured as Tá Nom approached, inviting him to kneel before him so that he could receive the Koda heir’s dead. Tá Nom bowed — together will all his men — and then knelt.

Though Ŏnin arranged his blue robes in order to receive Tá Nom Koda’s dead according to the rites, the man instead spent a moment looking about the tent and even at the Nal Dor behind them. Ŏnin waited.

“It gladdens my heart to see that there are still young men in this world who wish to devote themselves to the service of the Ădol.” Tá Nom bowed his head as he spoke, his gaze alighting briefly on Min La where he sat behind the row of monks, his blue hood casting a deep indigo shadow across his face.

“As long as there are Ădol,” the old monk replied, also bowing, “there will be men willing to serve them.”

Tá Nom bowed again and Ŏnin again moved to receive his supplication.

“It is a striking resemblance,” Tá Nom said. Ŏnin started slightly and opened his eyes. The young Koda heir was still staring at Min La, a small smile on his long, inscrutable face.

“Resemblance, my lord?”

“This young monk.” He nodded at Min La. “The way he is sitting and the way his cloak falls, his youth and his long hair. Does he not remind you a great deal of the very Ădol whom you serve?”

Ŏnin turned then, surprised to have his anxious tension allayed by such an observation. He looked behind Min La — who was doing an admirable job maintaining the air of a contemplative young monk in the face of so many onlookers — at the woven tapestry from the Om Lun era that had been gifted to their little temple two centuries ago. This was a pilgrimage tapestry, intended for this very purpose, to be hung for veneration at every stop along the annual River Voyage.

Like most pilgrimage tapestries, the design was ornate but simple. Meant to provide sacred imagery for the people visiting the pilgrimage, the primary depiction was always, of course, Ávoth. Most depictions of the young Ădol showed him standing ankle-deep in one of his beloved rivers, arms open to welcome the recently deceased. Always with a blue hood and a long blue cloak. Always with long hair and always with his eyes closed. And usually his hair was white, like his father’s.

In the pilgrimage tapestry that the monks had displayed, however, Ávoth was not standing, but sitting cross-legged on the far bank of a narrow river. His long hair, instead of being white, was the same gray as the river water. His pale hands were open on his knees, palms up. In the background the moon and sun shared the sky. A section of Ávoth’s fluid blue robes had stretched across the river creating a kind of bridge.

Ŏnin had always favored this depiction for pilgrimages, as it suggested that the young Ădol was receiving the supplicants who would come in droves to offer the names of their deceased loved ones to the passing monks.

Looking at it now, with Min La sitting idly in front of it in the dim yellow light of late morning, he too was struck by the similarity.

The blue cloaks they had given to Min La and So Ga had been ample enough, the old monk had hoped, to hide the young men’s identities. But the way Min La sat wrapped and almost cocooned in it, the deep blue fabric had stretched around his shoulders and draped across his lap to almost exactly resemble to robes of the Ădol on the tapestry behind him. Min La had drawn his hood low to conceal his face, but his hair fell long across his chest and blew slightly in the autumn breeze like lengths of tangled black ribbon. His eyes were closed in what could have been contemplative prayer. But the old monk had come to understand the boy well enough to know that he was more than likely just trying not to fall asleep.

At that moment, however, Ŏnin could distinguish no difference between the young man wrapped tightly in borrowed blue robes and the melancholy Ădol on the tapestry behind him. The image, he perceived, had been doubled. It filled him with a certain mournful dread to see such mirroring and he wondered if perhaps he had committed some grave error by putting Min La in the robes of Ávoth. Would the mournful Ădol be drawn to his own image accidentally duplicated in the living world? Would the gloom of Ávoth haunt the shadow of Min La from this moment on? It seldom brought good fortune to be among the beloved of Ávoth.

“Brother?”

Ŏnin started. He had entirely forgotten about Tá Nom Koda who still knelt before him, still wearing that unreadable smile.

“Yes, my son?”

“Would you permit me to present my dead to this young monk? Perhaps it is foolish, but I entreat you to humor me, if it is within your power.” He held up his blue envelope, which had been wrapped in white string and sealed with the wax seal of the Koda House. It was the more formal means of delivering supplications, but was quite common among the wealthier Houses. The Kodas had also left an offering of food. No donations were accepted along the River Journey save what was needed for the journey itself. Monks of Ávoth did not eat fish and so offerings of meat and grain were most common. The Kodas being wealthy had also given fruit.

Ŏnin bowed slowly and made a great production of standing, his arms tucked into the heavy blue sleeves of his worn robes. The Koda heir waited on his knees while the monk approached Min La and knelt next to him.

Min La stirred when he heard his voice whispering in his ear. Then he nodded.

Ŏnin positioned himself by the young man’s side and then motioned for Tá Nom to approach. Min La had recognized him immediately but kept his eyes down.

“This is our little brother’s first River Voyage,” Ŏnin said to Tá Nom. “I will help him receive your dead.”

Tá Nom bowed to both of them. “Thank you.”

With Ŏnin’s practiced help, Min La extended his arms until the vast lengths of blue cloth had unfolded from his lap, then he held his arms out to Tá Nom, who did not move. Slowly, Min La pulled his hands back inside his sleeves, leaving a pool of blue fabric stretched all the way across the narrow divide between him and Tá Nom, with the edge of it just touching Tá Nom’s knees.

The Koda heir placed his blue envelope on top of this pool of blue cloth. Min La reached forth with one hand wrapped entirely in his sleeve and folded the envelope into the fabric, like a wave of water swallowing the sealed envelope. The length of fabric that had bridged the divide between them disappeared, and with it, Tá Nom’s dead. Following Ŏnin’s whispered instruction, Min La bowed deeply, his chest almost touching his knees. Tá Nom mirrored his bow and they both remained in that position for some time.

Ŏnin could not make out what the Koda heir whispered to Min La then, but the message was lengthy. When he was done, he stood up. With the same unmoved smile on his face, he bowed to both of them and, together with his men, he took his leave.

Ŏnin studied Min La’s face as he straightened from his bow. The boy did not seem troubled, not any more than before. He didn’t think the boy’s face could get any paler than it already was, and though he seemed calm, Ŏnin had only seen his calm broken when his brother had been in danger. Whatever message the Koda heir had carried, then, it could not have been a dangerous one. The monk wondered if it had been the opposite, if the dignified and unreadable heir of the Koda House had perhaps come here specifically to provide some aid to the pair of them. Had he done this out of the kindness of his heart, Ŏnin wondered, or because it would benefit his House in some way?

But he shook his head. Such speculations were not for an old man. And certainly not for an old monk.

Another monk came from the row in front of them to take the sealed envelope. Min La used his fabric-wrapped hands to place it in the silver dish that the monk held out to him. Relieved of their burden, his hands stretched out from the sleeves and Ŏnin saw that they trembled slightly.

“My son?” the old monk said.

Min La shook his head. “Where is he?” he whispered, referring, of course, to his frail brother.

“Sleeping in the cabin.”

“We will leave after he wakes.”

“Another day on the river will get you closer to your destination.”

“Another day in the pilgrimage might attract too much attention.” He turned to look at Ŏnin. His pale young face framed as it was by the blue cloth was so like Ávoth’s that it made the old monk a little afraid. “We have already invited too much danger into your lives.”

Ŏnin knew it was useless to argue. And, in truth, the young man was not wrong. Clearly the Koda heir had recognized him. Perhaps the blue robes and the company of the monks were not enough to hide them after all.

“Tomorrow night,” the old monk agreed. “After we burn the dead.”

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1

Ban Lo Sonen endured the tense silence in his carriage as it carried him back to his father’s estate. Tense because, as usual, his wife made repeated efforts to speak to him or to pry into his private thoughts and he was forced to ignore her.

Nă Nen2 was a small woman with long chestnut hair and pale cheeks that glowed rosy pink even in the carriage’s dim lantern light. Her thin brows were down-turned and her large eyes always shone when she looked at him, as if she was constantly on the verge of tears. He found himself treating her delicately, in spite of his indifference. A thing which required energy and care so he resented it and he resented her.

As the wife of a clerk and the daughter-in-law of still another clerk, Nă Nen had no social obligation to dress herself in finery. Still, her brown silk golt was elegantly made and embroidered all over with tiny white flowers. Her own handiwork, he assumed. Over this she wore a thick velvet coat of pale violet which suited her complexion and shone amber in the lantern light. He sat beside her in the small carriage, with her warmth and the sweet fragrance of her perfume distracting his already unsettled mind. Once, she reached out to hold his arm, but he flinched away from her outstretched fingers.

Tucking her small hands into the sleeves of her velvet coat, she said, “You were longer in leaving the Palace today.”

Despite the fact that she had not meant it, he heard in this an accusation.

“I was summoned to speak to the king,” he answered sharply.

She stared at him with her large eyes. “Meet with the king?”

“I cannot tell you what about.”

“Of course, I know you—”

“I do not know why you insisted on coming with me.” Reaching over he pulled one of her hands from her sleeve and squeezed her icy fingers. “I cannot concentrate on my duties if I am forced to care for a sick wife. You’ve seen how distracted it has made my father to care for my mother.”

Nă Nen pulled her hand away and slipped it back inside her sleeve. With a bow of her head she said, “I’m sorry, my lord. Next time I will stay at the estate. Perhaps I can do more to care for mother and lessen the burden on father.”

“Yes,” he answered, distracted. “You probably can.”

Ban Lo’s father was waiting just inside the estate’s gate. Wrapped in a wool cloak, pacing furiously across the paving stones, he appeared to have been waiting for his son since he had arrived home. When he and Nă Nen stepped inside and the servants closed the gate behind them, he stopped in his tracks and turned his flashing eyes upon them.

“Ah, you’re back,” he said, as if he hadn’t been waiting for them. Then he turned to his daughter-in-law and added, “Your mother-in-law has been asking for you. Perhaps you should go to her.”

Nă Nen bowed delicately to her husband and quickly went inside, moving so smoothly that she almost seemed to float. Ban Lo watched her go. The maids of the household brightened when they saw her, and then closed the door after she had stepped inside.

Balo had also turned to watch her go, his hands clasped behind his back. Turning back to his son he said, almost in passing, “I see your wife is still not with child.”

Ban Lo tensed and clamped his jaw shut tightly lest his foul mood cause a slip of the tongue.

“How many years have you been married and not even one baby. The first of the three who came before you was born a year after your mother and I were married. Do I need to send for physicians?”

Ban Lo bowed slightly. “It is my own matter, father. I will handle it.”

“See that you do. There is already talk among the other courtiers. My only son still without any children of his own. It’s embarrassing.”

“I’m sorry, father.”

“I know she isn’t the one you wanted. But because of her we were able—”

“I know, father.”

Balo twisted his lips into something like a thoughtful grimace as he studied his son.

“Anyway,” he said at last and Ban Lo turned slightly to avoid making eye contact. “Anyway, you were summoned by the king.”

“Yes, father.”

“And what did the king want, my boy? Stand up straight, will you, by the Ădol.”

Ban Lo pushed his shoulders back and took a few steps to the side. He was never sure which was more likely to irritate his father, that he was slouching or that he was much taller than him when he wasn’t. Standing a ways from him seemed to mask the latter.

“His Majesty has begun to grow annoyed at the frequent absences of my master and—”

“Your what?” Balo interrupted.

Ban Lo took a quiet breath and bowed. “He has begun to notice that the Minister of Defense might not be capable of doing his duties any longer.”

Balo nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, that’s to be expected. It doesn’t matter anyway, his time is almost finished.” Then he offered his son a thin, forced smile. “And then you will be able to take his place as we planned. Yes, all is going well. What else did he say?”

“He suspected that I had manufactured the report you wrote about the Lăsoth House.”

“The one about their issues at the border?”

Ban Lo nodded and his father grunted.

“He probably knows by now that half the things that are stamped with the seal of that senile old bastard were written by me. Not that he can do anything about it.”

“I think he was trying to protect Bo Han Lăsoth, given that he is his brother-in-law.”

“Well, he can’t,” Balo snapped. “The Housemaster of Lăsoth is a fool. By the time I have destroyed his House he won’t even know what happened. The cleverness of the Lăsoth House has long been dead. Did the fool defend himself?”

“Bo Han Lăsoth?”

“Yes, him.”

“No. He admitted that the report was true. But the king didn’t seem concerned. He seems to have a great deal of faith in Bo Han Lăsoth.”

“He is also a fool. The only sense in this city is here in this estate.”

Ban Lo looked away, unsure if he should go on. His father was in a mood and he worried that telling him the rest of what the king had said would anger him even more.

“What is it?” Balo asked. “Was there more?”

Ban Lo licked his lips. He did not notice that his shoulders had rolled forward again and he was slouching.

“Straighten your back, damn you. What else did the king say?”

“I do not know why, exactly, but he was asking about the royal officers.”

Balo narrowed his eyes and walked closer to his son. “What about them?”

“He seemed to think that they were your idea. He seemed to be trying to ask me this without being direct.”

“Was there anyone else there when he asked you this?”

“No. Just… that servant. The woman.”

“And what did you say?”

“Nothing. I answered as you told me to answer.”

“Very good.” He turned and took several steps in the other direction before stopping and staring up at the afternoon sky. “You’re sure he said nothing about Osa Gate?”

“Osa Gate, father?”

“Yes. Think carefully.”

“I’m sure, father. He never mentioned it.”

“Or Ko Gŏth Enlin?”

“The king’s Iron Hand? No, he never mentioned him.”

Balo nodded and his shoulders seemed to relax. “Very good,” he said again.

“Why would he have spoken to me of the Iron Hand? Is there something I should know?”

Turning, Balo said, “We need to watch Osa Gate very closely.”

“‘We’?”

“I am not sure I trust Ko Gŏth Enlin. His behavior these last weeks has been most strange.”

“These last weeks?” Ban Lo stared at his father in open shock. “You’ve been in communication with the royal officer at Osa Gate?”

Balo looked at him evenly. “And if I have?”

“Father, I am responsible for the royal officer at Osa Gate. That was my—”

“And if it was? This plan has been in motion for over a decade. There are some parts of it that I only trust myself to oversee. Or is your pride too great for that?”

Ban Lo took a sharp breath, exhaling a crisp white cloud of steam in the chill afternoon air. “You have put me in my position so that I can help you. But still you treat me like a child.”

Balo laughed lightly and then glanced back at the door through which Nă Nen had entered the residence. “Perhaps if you started acting like a man I would treat you like one.”

Ban Lo, struggling to maintain his composure, turned to leave and make his way to his residence. But his father called him back.

“Will you not even visit your own mother?” he said, his lips curled into a twisted smile.

His anger only contained in his throbbing chest, Ban Lo pushed past his smiling father and then through the doors of his parents’ residence, startling the maids who bowed as he entered and then timidly watched him march down the narrow corridor to his mother’s bedchamber with his shoes still on.

Pushing open the thin wooden door he found the dimly lit room where his mother had been confined to her bed for weeks. He knew that his father believed she would not survive this illness. Ban Lo thought in that moment that his father was probably disappointed at how tightly she clung to life.

The room was at the center of the residence and so had no windows except the thin colored panes in the wall that overlooked the corridor. Colorful frescoes covered the walls in flowers, as if the room was actually a garden, an illusion that was aided by the presence of several bouquets of silk flowers which his mother had made herself, a hobby she used to occupy herself during the long, dark winter months.

Her bed stood at the center of the room, adjacent to a large porcelain stove that had been painted with vines. Flues sent the heat into the bed’s stone base. The entire room was stiflingly hot.

Nă Nen sat on a small cushioned bench by the bedside. Her embroidered brown silk shone in the light of dozens of candles and her long, loose hair seemed to be woven with gold. She was leaning on the bed, her face very close to her mother-in-law, their hands clasped together in a knot of small, delicate fingers.

Her maid stood nearby, smiling warmly at the scene.

When Ban Lo entered, his mother looked up with a start. Her hair, like her son’s was light brown, though hers was streaked with white. Her fine face was ashen, her eyes bloodshot and weak, and her thin body trembled as she tried to sit up. Nă Nen stood and held her hands to help her.

“My son,” his mother said, her tired eyes shining. “It is good of you to visit me when you are so busy.”

The sight of her pale and haggard face and her thin, shivering body made him even angrier and he struggled to control his temper. Everywhere he turned in this wretched estate he found only misery. Offering her a stiff bow he said, “I am busy, mother. And we must go now.”

His mother tried to conceal her disappointment with a pained smile. “Oh, do leave Nă Nen here, she is such a comfort to me.”

Nă Nen turned to her husband. “I would like to stay,” she said timidly.

“I said we are leaving.” And he turned to go.

“But—”

Turning back, Ban Lo took his wife by the arm and pulled her away from his mother’s bedside. Their hands were still joined and his mother would not let go, so the force of Ban Lo’s motion pulled her from her bed.

She cried out, and Nă Nen gasped, but Ban Lo did not let go of her. His heart trembled in his hot chest when he saw his mother struggle to pull herself back into her bed. But then her maid was there lifting her gently and soothing her as she struggled to catch her breath.

Ban Lo gave another bow and then, turning, pulled his wife from the room.

As nightfall spread blackly over the capital, Balo stole from his estate in secret and made his way to the Palace.

The wall that surrounded and contained the royal woods had been scorched by the fire and the gate itself had had to be repaired. But the repairs were poor and the entire Spring Courtyard — together with its little forest — was empty by the king’s order.

Or, Balo thought with a grimace, by her order.

It had once been easy to meet with her there. A pathway from the queen consort’s residence led to the same little forest and had not been walled given that, at the time the Spring Courtyard had been built there was no queen consort and access to her residence had been forbidden to all. An oversight, Balo knew, that she had facilitated.

Balo knew that no one else in the Palace knew of that pathway. No one, of course, but her. In the past, that was how they had met; she would take the queen’s passage to the gate and he would take his black carriage to the wall.

But it had been weeks since she had arranged a meeting. By their agreement only she could summon him. He was not permitted to call for her. Ever since the attack and the fire he had waited, but no word had come.

He was tired of waiting. For some weeks now he had begun to fear that Éna Lí, having achieved her goal of control over the Palace House, was casting him aside. And, like it or not, he still needed her in order to maintain control over the king and ensure his plan’s success. He had no choice but to seek her out, especially now.

Balo left the blacked-out carriage some ways from the avenue that led to the Palace’s back wall and went the rest of the way on foot. He wasn’t sure what his plan was. Would he enter the Palace using the queen’s passageway and find Éna Lí? Did he hope to spy on her, or even confront her?

Before he could determine his own mind, he was distracted by the sudden awareness that he was not the only person walking to the back of the Palace. Before him, at quite a distance, walked another figure. A man, by the size of him, wearing a black cloak with the hood drawn low. He walked with purpose to the very same spot where Éna Lí had once instructed him to meet her. Balo tucked himself behind a large oak and watched with rapt attention, curiosity mingled with anger.

The cloaked figure knocked once and then waited, just as Balo usually did. And in time the little wooden door next to the fire-scarred gates opened soundlessly.

And there she stood.

Éna Lí’s black silk gleamed in the moonlight. Her pale face glowed as she smiled and offered a bow. It seemed that the procedure was precisely the same with this stranger as it had been with him all these long months.

Straining, he tried to hear them, but not even a single word of their whispered conversation reached his ears. They spoke for several minutes; Balo’s legs seemed about to cramp.

He noticed presently that she seemed to treat this cloaked stranger with greater affection that she did him. She touched his arm and clasped his hand. Once, just as they were about to part, she reached out one hand and touched his shadowed face. Then the man took her hand and kissed it and she smiled as she watched him go.

Balo tried to see who it was as he left. But the man was very careful and Balo didn’t want to risk moving from his hiding spot. Éna Lí watched until the figure was gone, then she leaned against the Palace wall and stared up at the moon for some time. Balo watched as her lips moved, as if she was uttering some prayer. Then she went back inside and closed the little door.

It was then, when the cloaked figure was long gone and right after Éna Lí had disappeared, that Balo came out. He rushed to the little door and knocked as he always had. The door opened quickly, as if she’d been waiting for her visitor to come back. Her honey-sweet smile disappeared as soon as she saw Balo.

“I had worried you were perhaps unwell,” he said evenly, clasping his hands behind his back. “I am relieved that you were here to answer.”

“How long have you been here?” she demanded. He found himself feeling pleased at her anxiety and decided it might be better not to reveal that he had seen her visitor.

“I’ve only just arrived,” he said. “Were you expecting me? Perhaps my son forgot to give me a message.”

She collected herself quickly. The smile returned to her porcelain face, her white teeth shining in the moonlight. She gathered her thin cloak around her shoulders, covering the black silk.

“You wish to speak with me?” she said, her voice warm and musical.

“I have for some time. Ever since you did what you did.”

She smiled coyly and tilted her head. “Whatever can you mean?”

“Don’t play with me, Éna Lí. We both know you were the one who sent word to the Housemaster of Orin Han, who then sent his pet mercenaries into the Palace, of all the unthinkable things. We both know that you were the one who ordered the attack on the princes. And that you did so in my name.”

Her smile remained unchanged. “My lord,” she said, her voice almost purring. “It is my duty to anticipate the desires of my master.”

“Your master,” he scoffed. “You know I wanted the prince alive. I cannot control a king who has no heir. I cannot put a prince on the throne when he is dead.”

She blinked her large eyes. “I have heard that he is still alive. Perhaps there is hope yet. Is he not on his way to Osa Gate? Do you not control Osa Gate, or are you still having some troubles with Ko Gŏth Enlin?”

“Stop meddling in matters that do not concern you,” he snapped. “I will handle the prince. If you ever send another order to Orin Han in my name, I will end our relationship in the most absolute way possible.”

She blinked again, with sweetly feigned ignorance that enraged him.

Leaning forward he added, “Do not forget which of us is the servant and which the master.”

Stepping back inside the Palace, Éna Lí closed and tightly locked the wooden door. A girl stood nearby waiting, a look of concern on her round little face.

“How dare he speak to you like that, my lady,” she said.

Éna Lí made a soothing sound and stroked the girl’s cheek.

“Never mind him,” she said. “He is a buffoon, but he is still quite useful.”

“But do you think he can really save the last prince?”

Éna Lí laughed lightly. “Of course not. Táno Gín has never failed a mission. He will see the prince dead or that mad fool in Orin Han will put an end to his pathetic brother.” She took the girl’s hand and patted it gently. “No, my dear, despite all the futile efforts of Balo Sonen, soon the last little prince will be dead.”

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It was nearly nightfall before Sen Lí arrived at the Lăsoth estate. He came in a carriage, accompanied by five swords and his own bodyservant, a small man of about sixty.

Sen Lan had spent the hours before sundown pacing across the central room of the residence that Bo Han had given to her and her husband on the occasion of their wedding. Ŏvor watched her drift restlessly back and forth across the tile floor, her hands clasped before her, then clutching the skirts of her golt, then massaging the back of her neck.

Ŏvor did not know his wife’s brother well. He had met Sen Lí several times while working under his father in the north, but he had not seen him since marrying Sen Lan. He had not attended his sister’s wedding as he had been waylaid by a snowstorm in a Lăsoth village along the Kí Len River. She had been grieved by his absence that day. But Ŏvor had noticed that she had also seemed a little relieved, though he never understood why.

Sen Lí shared his sister’s brilliance, a trait that seemed to run in the family, but he did not have her short temper. Where Sen Lan was sharp-tongued, her brother was prone to silence. Where she was inclined to fly into a rage, he was more likely to withdraw into himself. It was said that Sen Lan could not hold her tongue but that Sen Lí always held a grudge. Ŏvor had never had cause to learn if this was true. He knew that his wife cherished her younger brother. He knew, too, that she was nervous about his arrival.

She had tried to shield her brother from Bo Han’s disappointment, but the Housemaster had known that Sen Lí had not misunderstood his orders; he was returning to the capital instead of seeking out the missing prince despite Bo Han’s wishes. Why he was doing so Ŏvor did not know He wondered if Sen Lan did.

Just as he was about to tell her to sit and drink her tea, one of her maids came in and, with a bow, informed her that Sen Lí had at last arrived and was on his way to greet the Housemaster.

Ŏvor watched as Sen Lan touched her chest. Then she thanked the maid and rushed from the room.

Hurrying to catch up with her, Ŏvor followed Sen Lan across the covered porch of their residence until it met the narrow stone path that connected it to the central structure of the Lăsoth estate, where the Housemaster would no doubt be sitting in his study. The dark blue evening shone with a dusting of starlight. Thin clouds caught the silver light of the moon and, in the distance, an owl’s call echoed across the quiet estate.

As they entered through the open door of the main structure they were met by several servants and maids. All were moving in a soundless rhythm of activity, sorting the belongings of Sen Lí and his men, preparing quarters for each of them, readying baths, carrying trays of food.

They all paused when they saw Sen Lan and Ŏvor, offering slight bows before continuing with their work. Bo Han preferred quiet in the hours after the evening meal and so they spoke to each other in whispers and went about their various tasks almost without any sound at all. Sen Lan stood still and watched them for a moment, distracted or perhaps hesitating. Ŏvor could not entirely understand why she was nervous. But then, he didn’t know Sen Lí as she did.

Gently, he touched her back. She flinched and looked up at him, then she smiled and took a deep breath. Turning to one of the maids, she asked, “Where is my brother?”

The girl — who bore a small tray laden with tea for three — bowed and answered softly, “My lord Sen Lí has gone directly to greet Master Bo Han.”

“In his study?”

“Yes, my lady.”

Sen Lan dismissed her and the girl returned to her duties. Then, with a passing glance at Ŏvor, she turned to make her way to her cousin’s study.

This part of the Lăsoth estate was understood to be the public portion, the only structure open to visitors and the one in which Bo Han spent most of his time and did most of his work. The Housemaster’s Hall was in the center while a wing of rooms stretched all around it, like a horseshoe, connected by a narrow, curving corridor.

Bo Han’s study emitted a warm glow in the dimly lit hall. They heard low voices even as they neared it. These grew louder as they approached and Sen Lan quickened her pace.

“Cousin,” the voice of Sen Lí said loudly, “we both know it isn’t as simple as one prince in the wild.”

“What it is or isn’t is not yours to decide.”

“The king’s son is as good as dead and you know it. We need to be consolidating our strength in the capital.”

“To what end?” Bo Han asked sharply. “What do you plan, exactly?”

Before Sen Lí could answer, Sen Lan pushed open the heavy, carved wooden door and said with a glowing smile, “Brother!”

Bo Han’s study was wide with a ceiling almost as tall as the Hall. The walls were covered in simple patterns of mosaic tiles, paths intersecting across the four walls of the large room. Several brass stands covered in candles lit the space and also warmed it, though the majority of the warmth came from a small porcelain stove near the wall which seemed to be connected to the larger stove in the Hall.

The Housemaster sat at his desk, Tova stood just behind him. He had been in the middle of finishing a letter which he was sealing carefully with a large pool of black wax and the Housemaster’s seal on the back of the gíth medallion that dangled from his belt. Ŏvor watched as he blew softly on the wax-heated metal and then let the medallion dangle again from its chain. The gíth caught the candlelight while it swung and shone pink and red. While brother and sister greeted each other, Bo Han handed the sealed letter to Tova and whispered to him at length. The bodysword set his jaw, his eyes flickering while he listened. But then Bo Han reached out and touched his wrist with a reassuring nod.

Tova took a deep breath, bowed, and then quickly left, closing the heavy door behind him.

Bo Han had removed his usual heavy gray golt and wore only his blue inner golt and a loosely tied coat of dark blue wool. His face was pale and his eyes dark from fatigue. While he watched Tova leave, he took out a handkerchief and coughed into it quietly. Ŏvor observed this with concern. Now was not the time for the Housemaster to fall ill.

Bo Han put away his handkerchief and sipped his tea. Ŏvor couldn’t read him, but still he had the distinct impression that he was angry. Something else, too. When Bo Han turned to look at his cousins, his dark eyes shone in the candle light. Tears, Ŏvor observed, stunned.

Sen Lan laughed as she embraced her brother. It was a musical if slightly nervous sound. The silence that had filled the room as soon as they had entered had been thick and suffocating and this sound alone broke it. Sen Lí said nothing at first, he wrapped his sister in his arms and patted her back with his large hands.

He stood much taller than Sen Lan, despite being younger. They had the same black hair and the same sparkling gray eyes. Sen Lan’s beauty was in her warmth and in the soft pink glow of her full cheeks. But Sen Lí was decidedly colder. His face — darker and without the warm glow that softened Sen Lan — was harshly carved; a sharp brow cast heavy shadows over his narrow eyes, sharp cheekbones gave him a hollow look, and a sharp nose brought his entire countenance to a fine point. When he smiled at his sister, it softened him somewhat. But looking at him in the naked glow of the candlelight, Ŏvor had the impression that Sen Lí almost seemed like a man who had been starved all his life and now glanced greedily about the world for any morsel.

Ŏvor remained near the door while his wife greeted her brother. He watched as she whispered something to him that made him smile and laugh lightly. Then, letting go of her, Sen Lí saw Ŏvor.

“Brother,” he said, greeting him with a bow. Ŏvor returned his bow but said nothing.

“How long will you stay?” Sen Lan asked him. “Before setting out, I mean?”

Bo Han glanced up from his tea and Sen Lí made an effort not to look at him.

“I do not think—”

“I know you will probably want to leave quickly. But you should rest. At least one night.” She clasped her hands before her and took a step back. Ŏvor sensed her unease and moved to stand behind her.

Sen Lí motioned to Bo Han. “I was just discussing with our cousin—”

“Your brother has been wondering if there is any merit in finding the prince.” Bo Han put his tea cup back on his desk. He did not look at them.

Sen Lan’s breath quickened. Ŏvor put his hand on her back.

She said, “I’m sure he means only what you yourself meant, cousin.” Bo Han raised his eyebrows. “That Lăsoth has no business meddling in the politics of the royal House.”

“Sen Lan,” Sen Lí murmured, rubbing his hands nervously with the hem of his gray cloak.

“And I’m sure that he would rather return to the border but will, of course, fulfill the Housemaster’s wishes.”

“Sen Lan,” her brother repeated. “I don’t—”

“Quiet,” she snapped.

Sen Lí stared darkly at her flashing eyes. “The prince is beyond hope,” he said quietly.

Ŏvor felt Sen Lan tense. She glanced at Bo Han who gripped his knee tightly, knuckles white.

“I am needed here,” Sen Lí went on. “Lăsoth is being threatened. Our cousin cannot—”

“Cannot what?” she asked, breathless. “Cannot defend his own House?”

He looked taken aback. “I would never say that. I only wish to aid him, to support him.”

“And you will. The Housemaster has asked you to do a simple thing. Will you stubbornly disobey as you did when we were children?”

Ŏvor slid his hand around his wife’s waist, gripping gently in an effort to signal her to calm herself. It would not do for her reunion with her brother to be marred by harsh words spoken in anger.

Glancing at Sen Lí, Ŏvor watched as a pained look moved over his face. It lessened the shadows around his eyes, softened the sharpness of his cheeks. Ŏvor sensed in Sen Lí a genuine wish to be of service to Bo Han. He might have gone about it in the wrong way, but like many proud young men, he believed resolutely in his own opinions and so had taken it upon himself to convince his Housemaster. But Sen Lan would have no patience for anything short of simple obedience. Neither of them, Ŏvor feared, would budge. He realized then that brother and sister were identical in stubbornness above all else.

“I do not need you here.” Bo Han spoke quietly but the firmness of his tone silenced the quarreling siblings and, Ŏvor observed, made both shrink a little, like children. He wondered if this was at all similar to their upbringing, when their cousin had taken them in after their parents had died. Ŏvor tried to imagine the siblings as children, he tried to imagine Bo Han scolding them as a father would. There was something very natural about this image.

Sen Lí turned and bowed. “My lord, I can be of more use to you here,” he said, a slight shake in his voice. Ŏvor thought this strange as he had never known either Sen Lan or Sen Lí to fear their cousin. “I do not understand why you wish to waste valuable resources looking for a boy who is certainly already dead.”

When Bo Han flinched at these words Ŏvor suddenly remembered that the prince who was missing, the crown prince of Láokoth and the king’s son, was also the last living child of Bo Han’s sister. He was, in point of fact, Bo Han’s nephew. Ŏvor was surprised once again to find how easy it was to forget the Housemaster’s connection to the royal family, or what was left of it.

Sen Lan opened her mouth to speak, taking a sudden step forward, but Ŏvor held her fast. Turning, she looked up at him, simmering anger on her confused face.

“It is not often,” Bo Han answered, massaging his temples with the tips of his fingers, “that I take it upon myself to explain the orders I have given and which are being disregarded. But as you are my cousin, I will make an exception.”

Standing, he walked across the room to the little stove. With his back to them he opened the stove door and stared into the orange flames. Then he tossed a small square of folded paper into the fire and again closed the door. With his hands behind his back and his eyes still on the fire’s contained glow, he went on, “Very soon rumors will begin to whisper through the most powerful Houses in Láokoth about the boy who is being hunted by mercenaries and the fire that ravaged the Palace grounds. Many will try to learn who he is. Some will succeed. All who do will try to claim him. Any House who possesses the prince will be able to wield significant power over the king and his court. The very foundations of Láokoth will be compromised. Some of these Houses might be trustworthy. But perhaps none of them will be able to resist the temptation to use the prince. As it is, that boy is the most powerful living thing on this entire peninsula. But powerful only if he is in someone’s possession. He is nothing if he is dead.”

He paused and again turned his back. His hands, still clasped behind him, shook slightly.

“And because they cannot be trusted,” Sen Lí ventured carefully, “you will do what they want to do, in order to stop them from doing it?”

Bo Han turned. “Yes,” he said simply.

Sen Lan relaxed a little and so Ŏvor loosened his grip, though he still let his hand rest against her back. She had leaned against him and so he understood that this seemed to have given her a sense of comfort.

“If I find him,” Sen Lí said, “what if we—”

“No.” Bo Han’s voice struck the walls and ceiling of the room in a way that startled them. He took a step closer to Sen Lí and repeated, “No. He is to be brought back to the Palace.”

“But, cousin,” Sen Lan said carefully. “If the Palace is really as dangerous as you say…”

Bo Han turned his gaze on her and she quieted. Then he looked over her shoulder at Ŏvor.

“What do you think?” Bo Han asked him.

Sen Lan tensed again. Ŏvor was not sure how to answer. His wife had made a good point. More than once he had seen for himself the strange, hostile air of the Palace. And, indeed, had not the Palace House orchestrated the attack on the four little princes? Would the king’s son really be safe if he was returned to the Palace?

Finally, Ŏvor said, “They are separate matters. Protecting the prince needs to happen regardless of the situation in the Palace.”

Sen Lí turned sharply and looked at him, his eyes almost entirely obscured by shadow. “And how do you propose we handle the situation in the Palace?”

Ŏvor bowed and said, “That is not for me to decide.”

Sen Lí opened his mouth to answer but Bo Han stopped him.

“Ŏvor is right, they are indeed separate matters. And regardless of what happens with the Palace, the prince must be protected.”

Walking back to his desk, he sat and drew his coat tighter, tucking his arms into the wide sleeves. “You will leave tomorrow to find him,” he said to Sen Lí.

“And if he is already dead?”

But Bo Han didn’t answer.

Standing in the corridor outside Bo Han’s study, Sen Lan took her brother’s hands.

“You should rest. Tomorrow we will have breakfast together before you go.”

He smiled warmly. “I would like that. It feels like many years since last I saw you.” He touched her cheek. “And you have greatly changed.”

“Nonsense.” She swatted his hand away. “Now go, before I have the maids come and lock you in your bed like when you were young.”

Sen Lí laughed quietly, his face suddenly dulled by the gray pallor of fatigue and disquiet. Then he bowed to both of them and disappeared in the darkness of the dim hallway.

Sen Lan turned and looked at Ŏvor. “You see,” she said with a tired smile. “I can hold my tongue.”

He nearly laughed. But instead he kissed her. When he did, he was surprised to find her cold lips trembling.

“What is it?” he asked her, touching the crease of tension between her eyebrows.

But she shook her head, gazing into his eyes, her own darkened by the strain of some weight he could not see. Perhaps it was worry for her brother that had so changed her usual bright countenance. Or perhaps it was the sight of her brother and her cousin at odds with eachother. But whatever the cause, the sudden alteration to her face grieved him; she looked at her husband as if she feared she would never see him again. He wrapped his arms around her waist and held her tightly.

She said, “I worry sometimes.”

“What do you worry about?”

“I worry that Sen Lí doesn’t like you.” She dropped her eyes and pulled away from him. “I worry because Bo Han does like you.”

This made Ŏvor laugh all the more. He kissed her again, holding her fair face.

“Come,” he said in a soothing whisper. “Let’s go to bed.”

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1

Éna Lí stood just to the left of the beam of morning sunlight lancing across the king’s antechamber. The light pierced the room’s darkness while the dust that swirled in the air sparkled as it crossed the beam. Absently she put her pale fingers in the light’s path, blocking it with the shadow of her hand. The silvery beam flickered against her trembling fingers and she quickly pulled her hand away. The maids saw her flashing eyes and moved about their tasks with pale timidity.

The king’s antechamber was part of the old Palace. A room in a stone structure adjacent to the king’s Hall, with walls that had been covered in frescoes before Éna Lí had ordered them painted over with a dark, somber rose color. That had been over five years ago. Time, she observed stepping back from the lance of sunlight, seemed to be moving faster these days.

A porcelain white stove poured heat into the chamber in a thin wave that left the air with enough bite to please her. Heat had always disquieted her. As had the presence of light.

Though Éna Lí had already been disquieted. She had been agitated ever since returning from the Grand Steward’s residence. Her messengers had been sent out for news under cover of night while she had paced across the Palace grounds awaiting their return. And each report had made her angrier than the last. The fourth messenger, a boy who had brought his report at dawn this morning and delivered it upon his knees, had been beaten by Éna Lí in a furious rage. None dared ask what news had so angered her, but all the Palace House labored in tense fear.

Meanwhile, the Grand Steward’s residence had been sealed, and her meals reduced to broth and water. The physicians had been forbidden from visiting her. Any who had failed to prevent the escape of the servant had been taken to the cellars of Éna Lí’s residence. A sharp decline in the Palace House’s numbers would no doubt soon be noticed.

While Éna Lí watched, the maids misted the king’s ceremonial golt with rose water; the perfumed fragrance filled the room quickly and tickled her nose. Turning, she glanced at the little door from which the king would enter, but he still had not arrived. He seemed to move more slowly every day.

At last she heard the distant swishing rhythm of his stocking feet and his thick cotton inner golt. With a click of her tongue, the majority of the maids were dismissed.

The king came through the little door accompanied by two elderly servants who bowed at the threshold and went no further. Éna Lí dismissed them with a wave of her hand and they disappeared. The king observed all this with indifference, as he did the chill, dark air in his antechamber. He was accustomed to the cold and the dark, as these were the conditions Éna Lí preferred. Most of his life had been lived on her terms and according to her rules and preferences. Resistance had never won him anything but pain and immeasurable loss.

Éna Lí said nothing as she, with the help of one other maid, helped the king don his heavy ceremonial golt. Made of black silk, trimmed in gold and embroidered all over with the falcons and hemlock of the Sona House, it was only worn in court. The thick, layered weight of it pressed against his shoulders and back, but he was glad for the heavy garment. Lately it had become more and more difficult to stay warm in the Palace.

Éna Lí busied herself fastening the complex golden clasp at the king’s waist. It featured a braided chain and a long pin which looped through a hook and then again through a dangling catch. Her long, fair fingers worked clumsily, the king observed; twice she dropped the golden pin, which dangled on the braided chain and brushed against his knee. But he said nothing, and instead turned his head to look at the recess in the chamber wall where a locked golden door secured the precious white crown of Láokoth.

The king never wore the Láokoth crown to court; the delicate porcelain crown was reserved only for coronations. The last time he had worn it was on the day his son had been made the crown prince. Immediately after, So Ga had been taken to the Spring Courtyard and locked, together with his three body doubles, in the Four Little Palaces.

Éna Lí followed the king’s gaze as she finished fastening the clasp. Her beautiful face warped into an ugly smirk.

“Your Majesty is feeling nostalgic, perhaps?” she said in a voice thick with sweet derision.

“I will never wear the crown again, will I?” he said. The directness of his question startled her, but she collected herself quickly.

“I’m sure Your Majesty will find many occasions in the future on which it will be appropriate to wear the crown.”

“Will I?” He turned and looked into her shining eyes. “Perhaps when I crown a new heir for you?”

She flinched, her arm drawing back as if to strike him. But then she collected herself again and clasped her hands at her waist. The king was surprised to see her so on edge. He wondered if the cause for her rage should give him any hope.

The morning court meeting proceeded without incident. Éna Lí’s servants had positioned themselves throughout the king’s Hall to be able to observe and overhear. This way she would know of any possible new alliances or whispered rumors that could be dangerous to her plan.

The ministers were arranged in clusters in the great open space of the king’s Hall. Each had a desk behind which he stood and from which he could speak — or any of his people could speak if permitted to do so by the king — but the others in his retinue had only small stools on which they sat. The minister had no stool and was required to stand for the duration of the meeting.

Balo Sonen, on a little stool in the company of the prime minister’s people, to the right of the raised platform on which rested the king’s throne, seemed to be avoiding Éna Lí’s gaze, and that of her various servants. This almost pleased her. More and more Balo worried her. He was not formidable enough to be a threat to her plans, but he believed himself to be, and that was almost as troublesome.

His son, however…

From her position behind the king’s throne, she turned to look upon the tall, slender figure of Ban Lo Sonen, sitting upright behind the desk of the Minister of Defense. The aged minister, Heno Vona Lí, had been absent frequently and was said to be growing senile in his old age. As his master’s chosen representative in the king’s Hall, Ban Lo Sonen was permitted to stand in the minister’s place. As he was merely a second clerk, he could not speak on his master’s behalf, but was permitted to answer when addressed by other ministers or by the king. Today, he had little to say beyond the occasional polite agreement.

Ban Lo Sonen was a man quite unlike his father. Handsome, amiable, and charming. All traits, it was said, inherited from his mother, a woman who now lay dying in the Sonen estate.

But as the son of Balo, Ban Lo had also his father’s ambition and his taste for the delicate work of long, slow schemes. Éna Lí had long suspected that Ban Lo was superior to his father in this. However, like all proud sons of bad fathers, Ban Lo was hindered by this fatal flaw: he wanted both to please his father and to outshine him and so remained trapped in perpetual paralysis. For some time Éna Lí had been contemplating how she might use this flaw to her advantage.

As she gazed at Ban Lo — whose pale face shone in the morning sunlight filtering through the high windows of the king’s Hall — the young man turned and glanced to his left. Éna Lí followed this glance and nearly started when she saw Kío En Tolen, leaning against his own desk, hidden somewhat by the slope of the ornate podium.

How had she failed to see the entrance of the prime minister? Turning, she looked at the king. He was hiding a smile of relief as he looked upon his Oak Hand.

For days the prime minister had avoided entering the Palace. She knew why, of course. Her messengers had confirmed it; Kío En Tolen harbored the surviving servant — in his estate or some other secret location — and he feared discovery. Looking upon him now Éna Lí could see that that fear had begun to gnaw at him; his face was thin and had aged considerably, he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Did he know enough to fear her specifically?

Why hadn’t he acted? If he had the servant in his possession, then he must have learned from him the secret Éna Lí had worked so hard to protect.

Perhaps the servant hadn’t told him. Perhaps the boy was smart enough to know that the secret he carried was of immeasurable value and he was waiting for the right moment to use it.

Perhaps he didn’t know what he knew.

No, she couldn’t rely on luck to save her. If the servant hadn’t yet told the prime minister what he knew, she still had time.

She couldn’t send her men to force their way into the estate of the prime minister. Her actions could never be so obvious, nor could they so easily be traced back to her. No matter what, her hands had to remain clean, at least to the world outside the Palace walls. But if she didn’t find that little servant and kill him with her own two hands, if she didn’t silence him forever, years of careful planning would potentially be upended. And what if she was discovered? What if she was forced to flee, to return empty-handed to him…

Éna Lí’s wretched brother used to taunt her when they played, saying that her childhood schemes against him always failed because she insisted on holding the sword with her own two hands.

“Put the sword into someone else’s hands,” Amalnaroth would say with a sneer. “Then, when the job is done, your enemy will be dead and your ally will be punished in your place. And you won’t have lifted a finger.”

Bastard, she thought tightening her hands into fists. What was the use of winning if you didn’t do it with your own two hands? But what did Amalnaroth know about losing? He was the favorite of their master, chosen to stay by his side while she labored tirelessly and alone in the petty court of the Láokoth king.

But as she thought it, her eyes went from the face of Kío En Tolen, to that of tall, proud Ban Lo Sonen, standing at the desk of the absent Minister of Defense. And she smiled.

The king requested that Bo Han Lăsoth and Ban Lo Sonen meet with him in his chambers after the other ministers had been dismissed. This surprised Éna Lí, but the beginnings of the plan that had begun to formulate in her mind had lifted her mood, so she allowed it with passive amusement. With a smile, she offered that Kío En Tolen ought to join them, given his recent absence. Secretly, she wanted some time to observe the prime minister closely and to make him nervous. It would take some time to find the right way to use Ban Lo against him, but in the meantime perhaps she could toy with him a little.

The king, with a look of surprise, agreed. No doubt he thought that perhaps she would allow the prime minister to resume his usual favored position.

To Éna Lí’s added amusement, Balo had to be reminded, rather curtly, by one of her servants, that he had not been invited to this private audience and should exit the Hall at once. He glanced at her with a look of childish irritation, and then puffed his chest a bit before bowing and turning to march out of the king’s Hall.

The audience took place in the king’s antechamber, the same room where the king had dressed for court. While he spoke, the king directed Éna Lí and the other two maids to remove the heavy ceremonial golt.

Bo Han Lăsoth, accompanied by his man Ŏvor, Ban Lo Sonen, and Kío En Tolen stood on the other side of a short, painted black screen during this operation. Éna Lí watched the king’s face closely, curious as to his motives, but she was otherwise unconcerned.

“My lord Sonen,” the king said to Ban Lo while Éna Lí worked on the clasp at his waist, “Your master is again absent from court.”

The young Sonen bowed deeply and answered, “Your Majesty, the Minister of Defense has been ill for some days. But I have been relating to him in detail all the matters—”

“I have several reports that I have received from him in recent days. If he is too ill to attend court, how is it that he is not too ill to spend the hours necessary to write these reports?”

Ban Lo fell silent and slipped into a bow from which he did not rise. Even Kío En Tolen tensed, lifting his shoulders.

Éna Lí hid a small smile. The king had a commanding presence and a unique ability to arouse fear in other men. Were the circumstances different she would, perhaps, find something in him to which she could be attracted.

“Your Majesty—” Ban Lo began.

“Surely it is no less taxing to labor over a pen and a pot of ink than it is to stand at his desk in my Hall.”

The clasp undone, two servants came to help Éna Lí slip the golt off the king’s shoulders. They took the heavy garment to its wooden stand while Éna Lí retrieved a golt of thin black silk, without trim or embroidery, and helped the king put his tired, trembling arms in the sleeves. She was pleased to see signs of fatigue.

Ban Lo answered, still bowing, “Your Majesty, the Minister of Defense dictates his reports. I— we write only the words he tells us to write. We would never presume—”

“No indeed,” the king said while Éna Lí fastened the woven black ties of the simple silk golt into the style of knot that he preferred. Having finished, she retrieved a white velvet cloak and draped it around his shoulders. Two servants came then and took the painted screen away.

“No,” the king repeated, turning to face them while he adjusted his arms in the black golt’s sleeves. “No, you would never presume.”

Ban Lo continued to bow while the king walked across the antechamber to a little table near the glowing white porcelain stove. He rifled through a stack of papers until he found what he was looking for.

“This, for instance,” he said, bringing the page to Ban Lo so he could see it. “This report in which you detail the shortcomings of Lord Lăsoth at the Ŭthol Na border. This was written by your master?”

Bo Han Lăsoth, without moving his head, cast a sidelong glance at the bowing shape of Ban Lo Sonen.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Ban Lo replied. “He dictated the words. I wrote them.”

“You wrote them?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“What of it, My Lord Lăsoth? Is this true?” The king handed the report to Bo Han, who bowed and took it with both hands. Then he straightened and read it quickly. Éna Lí watched him closely.

She knew that Balo considered Bo Han Lăsoth an enemy. It would not surprise her if he had attempted to use his son’s position in the Ministry of Defense to undermine him subtly. She was curious, however, to see if the legendary cleverness of the Lăsoth Housemaster could withstand the schemes of Balo Sonen.

“It is true, Your Majesty,” Bo Han answered simply and, bowing, returned the report.

The king’s face flickered with surprise. Éna Lí smiled to herself. He had hoped that Bo Han would contradict the report Ban Lo Sonen had written. He had hoped that he could then use Ban Lo’s attempt at a scheme to remove Balo’s son from his valuable position. This would then weaken Balo’s control over the court which, he no doubt hoped, would in turn weaken her grip on him. She knew that the king believed that she served Balo Sonen, and not the other way around.

But he had failed to see that Bo Han had been trapped by his question. Had he answered that the report was untrue, that his Houseswords were able to guard the Lăsoth trade routes without difficulty — which would have been a lie — that would have placed him in a position in which he would have had to prove what he’d said. This would have then made his difficulty in the north — and his attempt to conceal it — a matter of court record.

If he merely admitted to the king here and now that the matter was true, it would go no further than this chamber. In either case, he was forced to reveal his situation, an embarrassment to the proud Housemaster of noble Lăsoth. But answering as he did was the only way he could avoid involving himself in court politics. A direct reply was Bo Han’s only option. Even if it did harm him a little.

In any case, the king had failed. Éna Lí watched as he rubbed his wrists and studied his hands.

Turning again to Ban Lo Sonen, he said, “If your master continues to suffer, perhaps he should consider removing himself from his position.”

Ban Lo’s bow deepened. “He lives only to serve Your Majesty.”

“Perhaps. But he is serving no one at the moment.” He waited while Ban Lo stood up from his bow, then he took a step closer to him and looked hard into his dark eyes. “He is my Minister of Defense. Not Ban Lo Sonen.”

Ban Lo bowed his head. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

Turning to Bo Han again, the king reached out suddenly and grasped his hands. The Lăsoth Housemaster did not seem surprised. He allowed the king to stroke and pat his hands as a doting father would.

Éna Lí did not see the king slip a bit of folded paper into Bo Han’s sleeve. No one saw, not even Ŏvor, who was watching his Housemaster’s hands in an effort to avoid looking at the frightening face of Éna Lí.

“You are a good and wise Housemaster,” the king said with open affection. “You will see to the matters in the north.”

“I will, Your Majesty.”

The king nodded and released his hands. “You may go,” he said abruptly. Then he also gestured to Kío En Tolen. “And you too. I’m not even sure why you’re here.” He turned to Éna Lí. “Why is he here?”

She bowed. “My lord the prime minister has recently returned from a long illness. He is greeting Your Majesty.”

“He is greeting me, indeed. My entire court has been stricken by long illnesses.” He turned back to Kío En Tolen. “See to your household,” he said sharply. “Your fair daughter is quite frail. It would be a great loss if she were to fall ill as well. Go, I have no need of you here.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” The prime minister bowed and, together with the Lăsoths, took his leave.

Once they were gone, the king returned his attention to Ban Lo Sonen. “Your father did you a great favor by having you placed in the Ministry of Defense,” he said to him.

Ban Lo only bowed, uncertain what to say.

With his back to him, the king went on, “What does your father think of the Minister’s decision? No doubt he offers you advice.”

Ban Lo lifted his head. “Which decision, Your Majesty?”

“The decision made many years ago, sometime after you began to work for him.” Turning, he said, “The decision to place a royal officer in each of my barracks.”

Éna Lí flinched in surprise. Though the question startled her, it was clear what the king was doing. He was trying to determine how closely the son served the father. Did Ban Lo Sonen obey the Minister of Defense? Or did he obey his father?

Or, Éna Lí wondered, did he serve himself? She found that she was just as interested in the outcome of this conversation as the king was.

Ban Lo bowed his head again and answered, “Minister Vona Lí’s decision regarding the use of the royal officer ensures efficiency and reinforces Your Majesty’s—”

“Are these Heno Vona Lí’s words? Or yours?” The king took a step closer. “Or are they your father’s?”

“My father, like all those who serve in Your Majesty’s court, supports every decision Your Majesty makes.”

Éna Lí smiled to herself. The boy was certainly quick on his feet. No doubt nine years in the king’s court had taught him how to speak carefully and at length, but without saying anything at all.

But then Ban Lo’s eyes snapped up. He looked directly into the king’s face and, with a small smile on his lips, he said, “My father thought it a wise decision.”

The king took a step back. He studied Ban Lo’s face, unhindered by the cool directness of the young Sonen’s gaze. Éna Lí studied him as well. Ban Lo seemed, perhaps, to be doing little more than to express his awareness of the relationship between his father and the king. He had removed a layer of appropriate deference from his behavior, just enough to suggest that he did not entirely respect the authority of the monarch who stood before him. But not enough to reveal whose authority he did respect. Éna Lí wondered what outcome the king had hoped for. Had he hoped to use the son of Balo? Had he hoped for support from a young, capable courtier? To what end?

The king, clasping his hands behind his back, said. “I understand your mother is unwell.”

Ban Lo said nothing.

“I hope that she soon recovers.”

Ban Lo bowed slightly. And after a long, tense pause, the king dismissed him.

Éna Lí followed the young Sonen to the door of the king’s antechamber, dismissing the servants who were escorting him.

“My lord Sonen,” she said.

Turning to face her, he bowed.

“My lord Sonen,” she repeated. “The king has asked me to escort you.” Then she took a step closer and reached for Ban Lo’s hand. “Your father is much on His Majesty’s mind.”

“Yes,” Ban Lo Sonen replied. “I’m sure he is.” His hand was tense in hers, closed in a tight fist. Gently she worked his fingers open and placed her cool palm against his warm skin.

“Because of your mother,” she added.

“Of course.”

“I am sure that Minister Vona Lí relies upon you heavily. And now your father, too. The king sees this. He understands.”

“Understands?”

“The position you hold, my lord, it is more significant that many realize. But His Majesty sees.”

Ban Lo Sonen tried to pull his hand away from hers but she closed it inside hers and squeezed gently. As she did so, he looked into her shining green eyes with an expression of open disdain. It pleased her to see it.

With his free hand, Ban Lo gripped Éna Lí’a wrist and twisted until she was forced to release him. She tried not to smile while he did this; his behavior was exactly what she had hoped it would be.

“Like the rest of His Majesty’s court,” he said, “I serve where I am ordered and do as I am told.” Then, still holding her wrist in his tightening grip, he leaned closer to her and whispered, “Unlike my father, I will not demean myself by serving the king’s whores.”

When he left her at the door of the king’s Hall, she watched him descend the stone steps while she massaged her wrist. One of her maids appeared at her side.

“My lady?” she whispered, watching her hands with wide-eyed concern.

“It’s nothing,” Éna Lí replied with a smile. “It’s perfect. He’s perfect.”

“Who is, my lady?”

“Watch closely, my child, and soon you will see how I will destroy two Houses. And I won’t have lifted a finger.”

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Ŏnin and the other monks pulled Min La away from the slumped form of So Ga whose thin, pale arms sprawled motionless on the cold tile floor, while the rest of his body was still folded inside the little room.

Min La had nearly destroyed the door trying to open it. It turned out that the secret rooms had never been intended for human occupation and so the mechanism that opened them only worked from the outside. By the time Ŏnin had managed to open it, Min La had been nearly frantic.

“Help him!” he had cried.

Ŏnin had examined the white face of So Ga, brow creased in concern.

“You must help him!” Min La had cried again. “Help him!”

Quieting him had taken three of the other monks, who took him by the arms and pulled him out of the little room. Min La had tried to grasp Ŏnin’s sleeves, repeating his plea again and again, so they had had to hold his arms while they spoke to him soothingly.

Ŏnin brought the boy out gently and set his head upon a length of blue fabric that had been placed there by one of the other monks. Then he leaned close, putting his ear to his gray lips. Faintly, he heard the whisper of breath. Then he pressed his ear against his chest and heard there the steady rhythm of a strong heart.

“It’s alright,” he said. “He’s breathing, but weakly.”

“You have to help him,” Min La repeated.

Ŏnin turned and looked at him. Min La’s face was almost as pale as his brother’s, his eyes wide and bright, both hands clenched into fists.

He motioned to the other monks to take the unconscious young man away. Letting go of Min La, they went to So Ga and gently lifted him.

“Wait,” Min La called, reaching out. But Ŏnin caught his arms.

“Be still, child.”

“You must help him.”

“We are helping him. My brothers are skilled; they know what he needs. He is safe and he will recover.”

The expression on the young man’s face was strange. The familial bond between the two seemed apparent enough, but this one — Min San, as he called himself and Min La as his brother called him — he seemed to carry the other together with a far heavier burden. One of duty, perhaps.

“Come,” Ŏnin said. “Let us see to your knee.”

Min La glanced down at his legs. Both knees were bare upon the tile floor. He seemed to only rediscover the pain in that moment and grimaced as he eased his weight off the bad knee. The bandage with the poultice was still inside the little room.

“But—”

“I will take you to your brother but we must also see to your bandage.” When Min La still hesitated, the monk added, “He is in very safe hands. We must let them treat him.”

“He has difficulty with his lungs,” he said in a hoarse voice.

Ŏnin smiled and nodded. “Yes, that’s apparent. Don’t worry, they know what they’re doing.”

Ŏnin helped him leave the lighted chamber and walk slowly down the quiet corridors to a small cell near the front of the temple. Ŏnin’s, Min La realized. Each step sent a spasm of pain down into his toes and up his spine to his skull. He breathed through his teeth and said nothing.

The inside of the cell was lit by a single lantern hanging from a frame in one corner. But in the wall next to the monk’s simple wooden bed there was a curtained doorway that glowed with profuse lighting. The curtain was slightly open and Min La could see the monks there working to treat So Ga. Candles and lanterns lit the room while they stirred herbs into a pot of steaming water. So Ga was propped against one of the monks, an elderly man with strong, leathery hands. Already, Min La saw, So Ga was beginning to stir.

“You see?” Ŏnin said. “He is in good hands.” Then, gently but firmly, he led Min La away and pushed him into a little wooden chair next to the bed.

While the monk worked on his knee, Min La leaned his head against the cold stone wall and covered his face with trembling hands. At last, he took a deep, steadying breath and reached for his bag, realizing only then that he didn’t have it.

“Where is—?”

“There.” Ŏnin pointed to a stool next to the door. One of the other monks had brought the bag when he had carried in So Ga and left it there. Min La moved to stand, but Ŏnin grasped his arm.

“You do not need it,” he said firmly.

Min La’s breathing had quickened again. He stared at the monk. “What if they come back?”

“They won’t.”

“We should leave. We aren’t safe. We’ve put you and the other monks in—”

“We are in a temple,” Ŏnin said, tightening the bandage around Min La’s knee. “We are in no danger.”

Standing, he went to a basin and washed his hands, drying them upon a blue towel. “Besides,” he added. “They have already searched this place and found nothing. You are safer here than anywhere else in the village.”

The monk had a point. And anyway, neither of them was in any condition to run. Min La took another steadying breath. And as his heart calmed, the pain in his knee returned. He grimaced and reached for it.

“Would you like something for the pain? We keep a supply of gindun.”

Min La shook his head. He needed to keep his head clear.

“It might help you sleep.”

He shook his head again.

The monk sighed. “You won’t be able to protect your brother if you’re fainting from exhaustion.”

“I said no,” Min La snapped, his voice echoing slightly against the stone. The room grew silent, even the murmuring of the monks next door quieted.

Slowly, Min La worked himself to his feet — balancing on one foot — and then, as Ŏnin watched astonished, he bowed deeply.

“I am sorry,” he said. “My brother and I have put your temple in danger. We are the reason the hidden door was damaged. I am sorry, I—”

Ŏnin crossed the room and took Min La by the shoulders, lifting him upright and then helping him back into his chair.

“What use is a temple,” he said with a gentle smile, “if we cannot help those in need?”

Min La’s body trembled. Exhaustion and terror collapsed inside him and he struggled to catch his breath. Hot tears stung the corners of his eyes. With shaking gasps he choked them back.

“And anyway,” Ŏnin said, sitting upon the bed nearby. “The door will be easy to fix. Brother Mon Rin will probably have it as good as new by tomorrow.”

Confused, Min La stared at him.

Ŏnin laughed lightly and leaned forward. “I might have told a little white lie,” he said in a whisper. “The walls were indeed painted ninety years ago, but the doors were designed by Mon Rin, one of the young brothers here — you met him when you first arrived. This will not be the first time he’s had to repair them.”

His eyes were twinkling when he smiled and tucked his hands into his sleeves.

But Min La did not feel relief. All he could think of was the sight of So Ga slumped lifeless in the dark little room. He had done that, he knew. He had smothered him in an attempt to keep him quiet. He had nearly killed the prince he had promised to protect. So Ga would fear him now as much as he feared the mercenaries who hunted them.

More than that. Min La shivered and rubbed his fingers violently, the knuckles cracking as he tugged.

More than that, it had become clear to him. The truth he had feared before he had even decided to leave Rensoth with So Ga: he could not keep him safe. Just as he had failed to save his sister and niece, he would not be able to save So Ga. He knew this now.

Unaware of his surroundings, he heard himself whisper breathlessly, “I can’t…”

The fragrant steam of the monk’s medicinal herbs filtered through the curtained doorway and lent its crisp, clean odor to the monk’s dark cell. It smelled the same as So Ga’s usual medicine. He could not escape it, the constant reminders of So Ga’s frailty.

Glancing up at the ceiling above him, then over at the stone wall, and to the other side to the wooden door and the lightly glowing hallway beyond, he shook his head. “I can’t.”

Ŏnin, who had been watching him with growing concern, understood precisely the nature of the battle the boy now fought. Standing, he retrieved the little stool — leaving the bag on the floor — and brought it over to where Min La sat clenching and unclenching his fists against his thighs.

He sat quietly and leaned close to him.

“If you don’t,” he said in a whisper, “who will?”

Min La started, then he covered his pale face with one hand, while he clenched the other into a white-knuckled fist. “You don’t understand,” he said.

“Perhaps not. Or maybe I do understand better than you think.”

“If I continue, I will lead him to his death,” the young man gasped in a barely audible whisper.

“You’ve brought him this far. That he is alive now is your doing.”

Min La shook his head. Then he turned and looked at Ŏnin. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, the skin around them pale as snow. Ŏnin was filled with pity.

“I could leave him here, with you,” Min La said. “You and—”

“You can do that.” Ŏnin nodded. “You can, yes. That is one choice. But that won’t change the fact that his fate is in your hands. We cannot protect him. We can barely hide him.”

“You don’t know— you don’t know who—”

“It doesn’t matter who he is or who you are. He is your responsibility. And I think we both know that he would rather be in danger with you than be in danger alone.”

“It’s because of me that he’s in danger.”

“We both know that isn’t true.”

“If I leave him here—”

“You will have to live with that choice for the rest of your life.”

“But if he dies, if I fail him and he dies, I will also have to live with that for the rest of my life.”

Ŏnin nodded. “Indeed.”

Min La’s breath caught in his throat. He clamped his eyes shut and bent over, his face aimed at his lap.

“I might have a solution,” Ŏnin whispered, putting his hand on Min La’s trembling shoulder.

He sat upright immediately and looked at him, eyes wide.

“My brothers and I are monks of Ávoth and so are required, every year, to make the River Voyage. Do you know it?”

Min La nodded once.

Once a year every temple of Ávoth sent their monks by boat over the nearest river — all temples of Ávoth were built near rivers — during which pilgrims would visit along the journey, bringing the names of their dead. These were burned on every night of the River Voyage with rites that were particular to the sacred journey.

“This village and our temple use the Osa Lí River, which goes down the mountain a ways. It flows alongside the mountain road until it turns to the northwest to join the Kí Len River and flow north to the border. If I am not mistaken, some of this path overlaps with your own. My brothers and I will take our River Voyage now, instead of in spring as we usually do. You and your brother may accompany us as long as you’d like.”

Min La stared at him, unblinking. His mind swirled through a hundred considerations, too many, until it had coiled itself into a tight knot.

“But how—?”

“We will disguise you both as monks.” With a smile, Ŏnin tugged at the sleeve of Min La’s blue robes. “We have already done so.”

Abruptly, the monk stood and went across the room, ducking inside the curtained chamber from which he called, “You should not decide right now. You should rest and think. And, when he wakes up, discuss it with your brother.”

Returning from the room, he carried a little clay cup to Min La and pushed it into his hands. Min La stared at it, then sniffed it. The contents smelled sweet, almost like figs.

“It is a tonic for the swelling,” the monk said, tucking his arms into his sleeves. “If you don’t drink it I will have them come and hold you down and—”

Min La swallowed the sweet liquid in a single gulp. The monk watched, an amused smile on his face.

“And now,” Ŏnin said, his eyes still sparkling. “I must ask you to forgive me. But I fear there was no other way to convince you to rest.”

Min La felt the tingling in his fingertips first, and then a great wave of dizziness came over him, like a shroud of dense cotton around his head.

“This—?” he slurred. “This is…”

“Gindun,” the monk said and took him gently by the arm. “Here, you can use my bed tonight while I keep watch over your brother. By the time you wake, you will feel better. You will see.”

“But I…” Min La’s legs trembled as Ŏnin helped him shift from the chair to the bed. His bloodshot eyes opened and closed slowly. “But I…”

“Quiet now. Your path has led you to this temple for a reason. Trust Héothenin. Trust Ávoth. Trust me.”

Min La had no time to answer. As soon as his head touched the thin linen pillow, he was already asleep.

The capital, Ŏno Soth

Bo Han Lăsoth watched dawn break across the capital from the window of his carriage. The liquid glow of it outlined the houses and the towers, cast them thickly in blue shadow. He squinted into the east where the sun rose red and pink, tinting the gray winter morning like ink across wet cotton.

Closing the shade, he put his hands on his knees and closed his eyes.

At court this morning he hoped he would see Kío En Tolen. The prime minister had been absent from the king’s meetings for several days now given an illness that had befallen his estate. This was what he had reported to the king, anyway. Bo Han also knew that Kío En Tolen had dismissed most of his servants and that he had not called for any physicians. Bo Han feared that he was not the only one who knew this. He needed to speak to Kío En, but he could not risk calling attention to it.

He took out a silk handkerchief and coughed into it soundlessly.

As usual he was accompanied by Ŏvor. Sen Lí had sent word through Sen Lan using their childhood code that he would return to the estate this morning. His sister, Sen Lan, had been busy making arrangements since yesterday. It had been over a year since either of them had seen Sen Lí and Bo Han knew that his cousin was eager to be reunited with her younger brother. Bo Han, however, was disappointed that Sen Lí had returned to the capital instead of going east to find the prince, as he had been ordered. Sen Lan had explained that she had not been able to be very clear using their code. She knew Bo Han was disappointed and was doing what she could to smooth things between her cousin and her brother.

Ŏvor, as usual, had not shared his thoughts on Sen Lí’s impending return. Bo Han tucked his handkerchief back into his golt and glanced at him. Ŏvor had his arms crossed over his chest while he stared fixedly at the corner of the carriage window.

Few in the Lăsoth House were unaware that Sen Lí expected to be named Bo Han’s heir. Every two years the Lăsoth council, Bo Han’s Inner Room, came together to vote on who should be named heir of the Housemaster. The last vote had named Ŏv Onol, Ŏvor’s father. A new vote had not been held since his death. But now that Sen Lí had taken over Ŏv Onol’s position as the head of the Lăsoth border estate — albeit unofficially — it was assumed that he would be voted to replace Ŏv Onol as Bo Han’s heir.

Bo Han himself was not granted a vote. But his opinion carried significant weight. If he treated Sen Lí with favor, he was more likely to be chosen. If, however, he seemed to favor another…

Bo Han wondered if any of this had entered the mind of Ŏvor, if that was what had so distracted him this morning.

Abruptly, Ŏvor drew in a sharp breath.

“My lord?” he said.

“Yes?”

“There’s something I’ve been considering.”

“Considering?”

“Yes, regarding what you said, about Balo Sonen and his son and the Minister of Defense.”

Bo Han watched him closely.

“If I am not mistaken, my lord, you believe that the Palace House had something to do with what happened to the four little princes.”

“I do.”

“And we have observed that Balo Sonen is an ally of the Palace House. We have also observed that his son Ban Lo Sonen might very well have some control over the Minister of Defense, which, in turns, suggests that Balo has some control over the Minister of Defense, which means that the Palace House, who might have attacked the four little princes, also has control over the Minister of Defense.”

Bo Han said nothing. He watched as Ŏvor turned again to stare at the glowing corner of the window shade.

At last, Ŏvor went on, “When Balo Sonen had his son placed in the service of the Minister of Defense, it was a reward that had been granted to him by the king because he had successfully concluded the investigation into the assassination of the royal family nine years ago.”

Bo Han smiled grimly and closed his eyes.

“Do you think it’s possible—?”

“Yes, Ŏvor. I do.”

When Bo Han took Ŏvor’s arm and alighted their carriage at the Palace wall, he immediately saw Kío En Tolen, standing in the shadow of the Palace, like a toy figure forgotten outside. It struck him how small the prime minister seemed. In that moment, Bo Han knew that his decision regarding Kío En was the right one.

“Ah,” he said to Ŏvor. “It seems the prime minister has, at last, recovered. Let us go and greet him.”

Ŏvor bowed and fell into step behind the Lăsoth Housemaster — leaving Tova to stand next to the carriage — as they made their way across the dusty stone road.

Kío En Tolen had wrapped himself tightly in a long, fur-lined cloak. He stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, very near his attendant Nălo, who watched Bo Han and Ŏvor closely as they approached.

Bo Han bowed, and Ŏvor followed. “My lord Tolen,” he said warmly. “I had nearly decided to send my own physician to your estate. It is a great relief to see you today.”

Kío En turned to him. His narrow eyes shone darkly, his face a map of shadows and fatigue, as if he had not slept in days. He opened and closed his mouth several times.

“I trust you have recovered?”

“I- I have, yes,” the Oak Hand stammered. “I- my household is not entirely well, however.”

“It isn’t your daughter, I hope?” And Bo Han took a step closer.

Nălo flinched, but then he glanced over Bo Han’s shoulder and saw his bodysword, Tova, who did not even have his hand upon the hilt of his sword.

Bo Han took yet another step toward Kío En, and then he reached out with one hand and gripped his shoulder. Nălo’s hand went to his sword, but the prime minister gestured subtly to stop him. Nălo bowed and took a step back.

Bo Han said, “Your daughter is still unwell? I am indeed sorry to hear that.”

Kío En stared at him. He studied the smooth plains of the Lăsoth Housemaster’s expressionless face.

“Have you considered taking her and her maid and that new bodysword of hers to your House’s estate in Enlin?”

“Her new—?” And then his eyes snapped open with realization. Bo Han squeezed his shoulder and Kío En took a shaking breath. The prime minister had never been stupid; he understood precisely that Bo Han Lăsoth had discovered who he had hidden in his estate. Bo Han had no wish to frighten him. But if he could learn that much, others could as well. If the Palace House learned of it…

“The king cannot spare me,” Kío En said, looking at the Palace wall. “I cannot leave the capital. And I will not—” He paused and took another trembling breath. “And I will not send my daughter out of the capital unprotected.”

“If I may, my lord. Perhaps my own man, Ŏvor, can escort them and see to it that they arrive safely.”

Ŏvor turned to look at his Housemaster with wide, surprised eyes. Then he bowed with a quickly stammered, “Y-yes, my lord. I would be happy to see her there safely.”

Kío En Tolen stared from one Lăsoth to the other.

“If I had a daughter,” Bo Han said, “I would trust Ŏvor Lăsoth with her life, that I can assure you. He is, you remember, married to my cousin.” Bo Han let go of the prime minister’s arm and tucked his hands inside his cloak. He said, “The capital is a harsh place in the winter. And the coming winter will be particularly cruel, I think.”

Kío En took a heavy breath. “Winter is always cruel.” Then he nodded once, and bowed. “Thank you, my lord Lăsoth. I will gladly accept your aid.”

Bo Han smiled. “We will see it arranged when we are done here. But first, let us go meet with the king.”

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The Palace, Ŏno Soth

1

The young king crossed the broad, stone avenue at a slow pace. His old ailments had begun to bother him again, but not enough to stop his weekly journey from one side of the Palace grounds to the other. Clutching his black velvet cloak around his shoulders, he braced against the last of winter’s cold.

Behind him trailed a thin company of servants and swords, more than he’d like, and fewer than the prime minister would have preferred. A compromise that displeased them both.

He was thin and small, too small to be king, they had once said many years ago, though he had not heard anyone say it in a long time. His slender face was colorless, and his long hair bound in a simple knot at the back of his head. In the pale afternoon daylight, his white skin seemed almost gray. The Palace physicians believed that the young king would not survive the year. How he wished he could prove them wrong. After everything he had sacrificed to stand in this place and wear the black of the royal House, after everything he had lost.

“You have nothing left to prove,” the prime minister had said when the physicians had gone and they were alone. “To anyone. Even Bá Hoth respects your power over the peninsula, more so than any Láokoth king in history. There has been peace for as long as you have been on the throne.”

“There is much I meant to do and have not done,” the king had answered. “And soon I will die.”

“The physicians may be wrong.”

And despite the kindness he had intended with his words, they had both known it was not true. The Palace employed the best physicians on the peninsula; they were not wrong. More than that, the king knew it, as he knew his own body. The pain in his chest grew day by day, each breath a labor greater than the last. He knew he would not survive the year, and he was beginning to fear that he would not survive long enough to see the spring.

All along the journey, guards bowed and greeted him, gates opened as if by magic or the soundless motions of the servants, the Palace spread and quieted for him, as if he was a gentle breeze moving through a field of grass.

The king did not see the way they stole glances at him as he passed, their eyes wide with wonder, as if they believed they were looking upon a figure of legend. Many whispered that he was. There was a popular belief that had spread recently through the Palace House that the young king was Netholom returned. The greatest king in the history of Láokoth had been reborn in the body of this small, frail figure who moved soundless as a shadow through the halls and courtyards of the Palace.

He crossed the broad central avenue and turned left, beginning down the narrow road that led to the Spring Courtyard. Behind him, the young king was aware of the presence of the prime minister, his Oak Hand. He walked a little ahead of the other servants, his hands behind his back, his blue golt gleaming dully in the white sun. The king could feel his disapproval; he had been guarding the king’s health vigilantly ever since the physicians had departed, and had not been pleased when the king had announced that he was walking across the grounds this evening. But he had said nothing. Perhaps he understood. Sometimes the young king wished he could talk to him as he used to, as before. But he had sacrificed much to wear the white crown of Láokoth.

The long narrow avenue down which they processed was often called the Green Way, as it led to the Spring Courtyard. Either side of the cobbled road was pillared with maple trees, tended carefully by the Palace groundskeepers. They would begin to bloom soon, but now they were motionless gray skeletons grasping stiffly at the sky.

At the end of the Green Way stood the wall that had once divided and protected the Spring Courtyard. It was no longer guarded, as there was no need. The Spring Courtyard had been empty of life for many years; there was nothing left to guard. Still, the young king allowed no one to walk here, not even the swords. Only he could set foot in the Spring Courtyard.

He left them at the wall; he could see the crowd of servants and swords on the other side of the gaping opening where the gate had been before it burned in the fire all those years ago. The prime minister stood in front. He lifted his head when the king glanced back. It seemed, in that moment, that the stone-faced man might even understand what the king was doing here.

This place had once been home and refuge to four little princes in four Little Palaces. After the fire they had stood as little more than ruined, charred husks. The scorched black stone, blood-stained wood, the ruins strewn like detritus in the valley, all of it had been left to be retaken by the creeping wild. Grass grew knee-high in the courtyards at the center of half-collapsed stone frames, trees had overtaken what was left of the walls.

The young king had spent many long days studying what was left, as if he could recreate it in his mind as it used to be from the ashes and dust that remained.

Two years ago he had ordered them to rebuild one of the little palaces, but not atop the ruins, which they were to leave untouched. Instead he had them place it in the center of the valley. The old plans were used to make it identical to the destroyed palaces, but it was not the same. For one thing, it was empty. Emptier, perhaps, than the ruins, as it had never held life within its walls. Nor would it. There were no more little princes to occupy the Spring Courtyard. Not even when the king stood inside its cold, white walls did the little palace contain life.

He moved through the gatehouse of the little palace until he came to the door that divided it from the other wings of the residence. Years ago, the gatehouse would have been filled with the little prince’s retinue of bodyswords. But now it was utterly silent.

Pausing now and then to catch his breath, he made his way to the back wing, the one that had once been the primary residence. He had navigated the walkways that crisscrossed the courtyard at the center of the residence so many times that by now he could probably find his way with his eyes closed.

Leaving his shoes upon the wooden porch, he pushed open a section of the wing’s wall, which swung on its frame providing a narrow opening. Of course, this wall could be opened entirely, but this place wasn’t for living, and so the king never bothered.

Despite the cold, he left the little section of wall open and moved through the many small chambers of the residence, but quietly, as if afraid to disturb the silence. As if the emptiness had been so densely occupied by memories that his footsteps could scatter them like fog.

On the other side of one of the inner walls, the king found himself in a bedchamber. A cold porcelain stove hunched near the windowless wall. The room was cold and dark and smelled of dusty stone.

With a sigh, he chastised himself for forgetting a lantern. Though even that wouldn’t have done much to cut the chill. He coughed into his sleeve. The cough became a violent fit and he leaned against the frame of the bed, struggling for breath. When he brought his sleeve away, it was dotted with blood. In that moment, the king felt himself weighted greatly with fatigue.

Moving slowly, he went to the back of the large wooden bed, which was in the shape of a box. The screens were closed and the bed had not even a mattress, as there was no need. It was merely — like the rest of the little palace — an empty memory.

Just as he had done a hundred times before, he carefully pried the wooden panels off the back of the bed’s heavy wooden frame. A heated stone box was hidden beneath the wood, quite cold now, of course. But here on the back of the bed the wood panels could be easily removed. The stone beneath was pale and smooth, and, in the last several months, had been gradually covered by messages.

Each had been written by the king.

Every week he would come to this little palace and sit on the wooden floor in this room and write a message in black ink under the wooden panels. And then he would come back the next week and hope to see a reply. But there never was. And so it was again today. His message was there in stark black strokes, and beneath it only silence.

Pushing back his black velvet cloak, he reached inside his golt and brought out a small bottle of ink and a thin brush.

It was at that moment that he heard the sound of footsteps on the other side of the bedchamber’s thin wall.

“Who’s there?” he called, a little irritated. The entire Palace knew that he was never to be disturbed when he visited the Spring Courtyard.

The footsteps approached slowly. Then the sliding door in the thin wall inched open and a child appeared.

He stood cautiously, his hands clasped before him, fingers fidgeting.

The boy wore the black of the royal House, and a thick coat of padded wool, embroidered in gold. His head was crowned by a shock of wavy brown hair, a gift from his fair mother. Unlike his father, the boy’s pale skin had the rosy glow of health.

The king sighed, his breath a white fog that faded before his lips. He lifted his arm and gestured for the boy to come to where he sat upon the wooden floor.

With a toothy smile, he ran over. The king opened his arms and the child climbed into his lap and leaned his tiny head against his father’s chest. His brown hair was only as long as his shoulders and difficult for his maids to manage. The boy smelled of the lavender they had used to spray his tiny silk golt, and also, faintly, of the Palace hunting dogs with whom he often frolicked in the little forest near the king’s residence.

“What are you doing, father?” he asked, tilting his head up to look into the king’s face.

“I am leaving a message for a friend.”

“A friend?”

“Yes.”

“Will he see it here?”

“Yes.”

The prince considered this with a thoughtful expression, his small, fair face crinkled into deep concentration. The king waited patiently. “Father?”

“Yes?”

“May I write something?”

“Have you been practicing your writing?”

The boy nodded vehemently, his brown hair tousled into a cloud around his brow. The king smiled as he smoothed it with the palm of his hand. “Very well, then.”

Kneeling next to his son, the young king held the uncorked bottle of ink while the prince grasped the slender brush. He stood inside the little crevice between the back of the bed and the inner wall, the brush poised near the blank spot of stone beneath the king’s last message.

Turning to his father, he said, “What should I write?”

“What would you like to say?”

The prince thought for a moment. “This friend,” he said. “Who is he?”

“He is someone with whom I shared many adventures. He protected me when I had no one else. He is more like a brother than a friend.”

The prince’s eyes sparkled. This seemed to have been enough information, for he immediately dipped the brush into the ink and set about forming large letters on the pale stone.

“Thank you,” his note read, “for protecting my royal father. I love him very much!”

Having finished, he turned and looked at the king, surprised to find tears upon his father’s face.

“Have I done it wrong, father?” he asked.

“No, my son. It is perfect.”

“Why are you sad?”

The king took the brush and set it aside with the bottle of ink. Then he sat again and put his son upon his knee. The prince watched his face very closely, as if studying him. Then he reached up with one little hand and wiped away his father’s tears.

The king smiled and took the prince’s hand. He said, “Sometimes, when I remember my adventures —”

“The ones with your brother?”

“Yes, my son, the ones with my brother. Sometimes when I think of them I am both happy and sad at the same time.”

“Happy? Weren’t you afraid?”

“I was. But I was often with friends and the memory of those friends and the time I spent with them is something I cherish.”

“Then, are you sad because you miss your friends?”

“Yes.”

“And your brother?”

“And my brother most of all.”

“Why can you only leave him messages? Why can he not visit you?”

“He cannot walk in the Palace as we can.”

“Why not? I should like to meet him.”

“You will one day. But he has his own path, as we all do.”

The king turned his face away from the prince and coughed into his silk sleeve. His son watched with deep concern.

“It is very cold here on the floor, father,” he said gravely. “Uncle will scold you if you fall ill again.”

“You mustn’t call him ‘uncle’, but ‘prime minister’.”

The prince nodded, “Yes, father.”

“Come, my son. Let us find your mother before she starts to worry about us.”

Father and son emerged from the little palace hand in hand. The boy walked staring up at the young king with a look of plain devotion. The setting sun had haloed his royal father in brilliant red. He looked like one of the paintings of the Ădol his mother had had done in the residence, but the boy couldn’t say for sure which one. So he just grasped his father’s hand and walked with him to the gate of the Spring Courtyard, gazing at him as long as he could, as if he understood in his childish way that his time with him was limited.

The prince’s maids came and wrapped a cloak around the boy just as the sun dipped behind the Palace wall and cast the grounds in chilly darkness. Lanterns were lit and the company prepared to return to the residence.

The prime minister bowed as the king approached. “Your Majesty,” he said with a small smile. As usual, the king could not read him.

“I am tired,” he said. “Let’s go back.”

The head of his servants heard this and bowed before going to give orders to the others. The group parted so the king could move to their head. The prime minister followed, his hands clasped behind his back.

Once they had begun to move, the king turned to him, motioning for him to approach, which he did, walking almost alongside him.

“Yes, Your Majesty?” he asked in a quiet voice.

“When I am gone,” he said, “do not wait. That very day, burn that place.”

“The Spring Courtyard?”

“Yes?”

“Why, Your Majesty?”

“Let it be what it once was. As long as my line sits upon the Láokoth throne, let there never again be a prince in the Spring Courtyard. Only then—” he paused and glanced back, but the evening had dropped a shadow over the entire Palace. Turning, he said, “Only when I am gone can he finally rest.”

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The monk — who gave his name as Ŏnin1 — brought the two young pilgrims inside the temple as night deepened into a moonless black. They were brought to a receiving room where it was customary to bring the mourning visitors who had come to offer prayers for their dead. This room was wide, with a low ceiling and a row of simple wooden chairs all around the perimeter. Min La was placed in one of these chairs just as another monk came in with a lantern. This new arrival was younger, with wide, startled eyes.

“Ah,” said Ŏnin when he saw him. “It’s good you’re here. Please put together a pilgrim’s meal and see that the pilgrims’ cells are readied for occupants.”

The monk bowed and left. But then Ŏnin called him back and told him to leave the lantern. The little monk bowed and brought it over, setting it upon the stone floor next to him.

So Ga sat heavily in the chair next to Min La. He was sweating and breathing hard and so loosened his cloak.

The monk asked their names, but did not press them when they offered no Housename. He knelt in front of Min La and said, “I will look at your leg. Is it an injury?”

But Min La shook his head, pulling his body away from Ŏnin. “I’m fine. I just need to rest.”

“My boy,” Ŏnin said patiently, “if you do not see to it, no amount of rest will prevent it from worsening. And then you won’t be able to walk at all.”

The speech reminded So Ga of the one that Min La had given him on the night the last of his bodyswords had died, the night their companionship had begun.

He looked at Min La. “He’s right,” he said quietly. “We can spare a little time to see to your knee, or we might not make it the rest of the way.”

Min La took a deep breath, one trembling hand gripping his left leg just above the knee. Then, with a glance at So Ga, he nodded.

“We will bring you boys some food,” the monk said conversationally, as be pushed aside Min La’s golt and rolled up the leg of his linen pants. As he did so, So Ga remembered that they had both received the clothes they were wearing at the Ŏklo estate, a time and a place that felt divided from them as if by years and years.

When the monk had at last uncovered Min La’s knee, it was a frightening sight to behold. The flesh around his kneecap had swollen horribly and turned red and purple. The kneecap itself seemed to have been pushed aside by the swelling and pressed sharply against the skin on the side of his leg.

“This must have caused you a great deal of pain,” the monk said, looking up at Min La.

But he just moved his shoulders and said, “It has become difficult to walk.”

The monk tried to stifle a small laugh. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Another monk, not the young one from before, entered the room and bowed. “Brother,” he said softly, “we have prepared baths.”

“Very good,” Ŏnin said as he stood. With his hands tucked into the blue sleeves of his thick golt, he bowed and instructed So Ga, rather forcefully, to follow the monk and to bathe. Min La’s breathing immediately quickened. So Ga, of course, did not move. The monk looked with warm eyes from one to the other.

“You are both quite safe here,” he said softly. “But you also clearly haven’t washed in some days. And you,” he looked at Min La, “you need to soak that knee in some herbs which we will prepare. Only then can we reduce the swelling. Otherwise you won’t be walking anywhere anytime soon.”

At last Min La looked at So Ga and nodded once. Ŏnin watched and the monk by the door waited. So Ga stood, leaving the bag with Min La, and followed the monk, glancing back once just in case Min La changed his mind.

By the time So Ga and Min La reunited, an hour or so later, Min La’s knee had been bound by a plaster from which emanated the unmistakable foul odor of a poultice. So Ga found him resting in the little room where they brought him after he had finished bathing. Both of them were wearing borrowed monk’s robes while their own clothes were being cleaned. Min La was sitting on a simple straw-stuffed mattress, his back against the stone wall of their little room, his wet hair darkening the shoulder of his blue golt. Another mattress rested against the other wall and in between the two was a low table laden with simple monk’s fare; bread, dry cheese, a few thick pieces of salted pork, and preserved vegetables. A clay pot of tea steamed atop a stove that had been placed in the room and which had already warmed it.

The smell of the poultice became stronger when So Ga sat on his mattress.

“What is that?” he asked, grimacing.

Min La smiled. “I was too scared to ask.”

“Is it helping, at least?”

“Yes,” he answered with a nod. “It feels better.”

“Was your water hot? I don’t think I realized how cold I’d become. Like it had taken hold of my bones.”

Min La shook his head. “Mine had to be cold.” He motioned to his knee. “He was going on about driving out the heat and things like that. But that’s warm.”

He pointed to the little stove near the foot of their mattresses, which glowed hotly and poured a comforting, dry warmth all over their legs where they sat.

“We should eat,” he said, working himself gingerly across his mattress.

“What should we do—”

Min La put up a hand. “Tomorrow,” he said with a smile. “Tomorrow we’ll decide what to do. Tonight, we sleep and we rest.”

So Ga nodded and began to eat, surprised at how hungry he was. It didn’t take long for all the dishes to be emptied. He noticed that he had eaten more than Min La, which worried him a little.

After they ate, So Ga cupped his hands around his clay tea cup and scooted to the edge of his mattress. “Do you think they would let us go to the temple?”

Min La sipped his tea. “Temples of Ávoth are never closed. I don’t think they would stop us.”

“Can you walk?” He glanced at Min La’s knee.

“With a little help.”

So Ga and Min La hobbled slowly down the narrow stone hallway. The floor was bitterly cold and cut through their new socks, but the temple was quiet and the dark that gripped it gently had a comforting effect. Min La could move faster than before, but So Ga urged him not to overdo it.

“Otherwise we’ll be stuck here for days waiting for you to be able to walk again.” He meant it as a joke, but Min La seemed troubled by the words. He had seemed troubled for a while, ever since they had left the Kodas, but So Ga wasn’t sure he knew how to ask him what had darkened his mind. And he wasn’t sure Min La would tell him anyway. As always, there were still parts of him that were walled off, parts So Ga guessed he would never see.

At last they reached the main chamber of the temple. Finding it had been easy; so glutted with candlelight, the room had glowed like a beckoning star, a glow that had been visible, even faintly, ever since they had left their room.

The large, radiant room was a perfect square with a high ceiling ribbed with painted white beams arranged in the shape of a four-pointed star from the center of which hung pale amber lanterns. There were no benches or chairs in the temple, and the clean floor was smooth, white tile. All around the white, plastered walls had been painted an intricate mural depicting the key points in the story of Ávoth. Drawn in the northern style, the figures were large and the other elements done with stylized flourishes meant to represent flowing water.

On the eastern wall, where the story began, Ávoth — with his long white hair and glowing blue eyes — admired the rivers he had used to construct his world, which became his House. By his side stood his sister, Ívo, and their parents Ávolendin, the guardian of the sea, and Ethádéoth, who had gifted mankind language. Ávoth was gesturing to his rivers, remarking to his parents that they were the marriage of their two domains: the sea and communication.

Ávoth continued to tend his rivers, using them to help his cousins and their many attendants all along the remainder of the eastern wall. By the time the story reached the corner, he had received his own attendants, all dressed in blue, who tended the brilliant blue waters of Ávoth’s rivers as one would a field. And from the plowed rivers emerged story and legend. And these flowed to the empty lands that had been readied for men.

Upon the north wall had been painted the beginnings of Ávoth’s friendship with Unolreth, the son of his cousin Soranen. Unolreth was depicted wrapped in white garments, a hood encircling his head, and wide, white eyes. He admired Ávoth’s rivers and implored the warm-hearted Ădol to allow him to traverse them. In one corner of the northern wall, Unolreth’s true intention was hidden: he sought the Deep Light, longing to pervert it for his own purposes, which were not yet known. Hiding all but his eyes, he peered out from the star-shaped portholes of Ávoth’s ship hoping to spy the glowing, watery primordial light that only Ávoth and his father were able to see.

The western wall was the grimmest. So Ga and Min La stood in silence staring at the terrible depiction thereon. Here was Unolreth learning from some hidden source how he could divine the secrets Ávoth would not reveal. A shadowy, watery spirit spoke to Unolreth; his white robes had become partially black, as if soot-stained, his large eyes were red. He carried a knife partly concealed in his sleeve.

Then, with his partly altered clothes and his red eyes, he went to Ávoth, tricking him to go with him to his own estate high in the mountains to the north. Ávoth, ever-trusting, eagerly accompanied him. The cup that Unolreth used to poison him was painted black, like a shadow upon the wall. Ávoth, having just drunk from it, was sprawled on the floor of Unolreth’s black Hall. And Unolreth — robes entirely black, face as gray as death, eyes red and glowing — had at last become Volhathin, and stood over the dying Ădol, knife poised.

In the next panel, Ávoth’s bloody body lay upon a kind of stone table, or altar. Volhathin stood over him, his arms red up to the elbows, his mouth stained with blood. Below this, painted near the floor, Ávoth’s rivers burst from their carefully-ordered containment, flooding his world and all the others with river water, with death.

On the south wall stood the altar. The monks had painted it white, allowing for intricate decorations of blue along the pillars and the corners. Placed upon it was a statue of Ávoth carved from white stone, with only his eyes and his robes tinted a pale blue. He stood — as tall as a man — looking down at them, his arms outstretched, the sleeves of his golt like flowing water. Before him, upon the altar, stood hundreds of slender candles, all lighted, placed in a long stone canal filled with blue sand. The altar itself stretched as wide as the chamber. On the floor in front of it rested dozens of brass dishes, each laden with hundreds of small pieces of paper. It was the custom of pilgrims to place the names of their recently dead at Ávoth’s feet. Then, when the moon was new and the weather calm, the monks would burn them according to the rites. The ashes, scattered in the nearby Osa Lí River, would make their way to the ear of Ávoth, who would know to welcome these dead into his ships and thus convey them safely over the rivers of his House. From time to time, pilgrims would then return and light candles to Ávoth, to thank him for his care. It was said that these candles illuminated his House and that without them the rivers of the dead would be plunged into darkness and the waters would again threaten the world.

So Ga went to the side of the altar and retrieved three candles from a little wooden box. These he lit using the flames from the others and set them in the sand-filled canal with a few murmured words.

“Who are they?” Min La asked quietly.

“The others,” So Ga replied, tucking his cold hands into the sleeves of his golt.

“Others?”

“The other princes.”

“But you don’t know for sure that they’re dead.”

“I do. Before we left the Palace grounds we met one of the royal guards and he told us.” He paused, then added, “They all died in my place.”

“Did you know each other?” Min La asked.

So Ga offered him a small smile. “We weren’t supposed to.”

“But you did?”

He nodded. “We had our ways.”

Min La retrieved a candle of his own, limping slowly back to the center of the altar where he lit it and placed it near So Ga’s.

“Only one?” So Ga asked, after Min La had finished his silent prayer.

He answered, “If I lit one for each of them, I fear I would burn down the temple.” Then he turned and held out his arm for So Ga to support him. “Come,” he said, “let’s go back.”

So Ga nodded and together they returned to their little pilgrim’s room and slept deeply in their borrowed blue robes.

Tucked heavily beneath the blue of Ávoth, hidden within the walls of Ávoth, tended by the monks of Ávoth, Min La dreamt. The strange landscape of his tumultuous mind had been ripe for disturbance. And so, for the first time in many years he dreamt of the horrible night on which the Nŭnon House was removed from the world of the living, the night his family had died, the night he had failed them.

When he, a boy of eleven, had failed to procure the papers that could have saved his sister and her family, he had attempted to flee, to save himself like a coward, by running along the rooftops of his father’s estate, which was otherwise empty. A group of five royal soldiers had seen him and had begun to taunt him by throwing rocks at him. Though he had been quick on his feet — especially then — he couldn’t dodge them all. One connected with the side of his head and he fell off the roof, landing hard on the packed earth between structures.

In the distance, the many estates around the prince’s were utterly quiet. The Nŭnon House had not offered resistance. The men had brought poison to their wives and children and then, having seen their families off, they had submitted to execution with dignity and honor. That was how his father had described it, but Min La didn’t see much honor then in allowing himself and his family to be executed for a crime they had not committed. Min La’s brother had said that worse things were happening inside the estates of the officers, but Min La hadn’t known what he meant. He had merely offered to obtain the papers that could save his sister, papers that would identify her and her daughter, Min La’s niece, as residents of On Dŭn. Before his brother and his sister’s husband could say anything about his plan, he had darted off. He had never seen any of them again.

While he lay on the cold dirt trying to catch his breath, he regretted his foolish choice to travel by rooftop, instead of along the ground keeping to the shadows. He regretted wearing boots when it would have been quieter to go barefoot. But most of all he regretted that he had forgotten to say goodbye to his brother. Lying there, humiliated and defeated, he could not remember the last thing he had said to him.

The men found him at once. Talking and laughing together, they had begun to kick him and beat him where he lay, mocking his foolish attempts to escape. They asked his father’s name, and he refused to give it, and so they kicked him all the harder.

The pain of the beating made his body feel like it was on fire. Every bone, every muscle, was threaded with hot needles. Whenever he tried to breathe, a blow would land upon his chest, setting fire to his lungs. Though he protected his head with his arms — as his brother had taught him — he heard the bones in his arms break when they kicked him over and over, their boots like stones raining down on him in a ceaseless torrent.

When they finally stopped from fatigue, he felt no relief from the pain. Like a child he whimpered and cried, curled into himself, hoping they would go away. Presently, however, they were joined by another, an officer, Min La guessed, judging by the way the others treated him. He came over and nudged Min La with his boot, causing him to cry out. The others laughed.

“Put this dog with the rest of his House,” the officer ordered. Min La was barely able to wipe some of the blood from his eyes before they seized his arms and his legs and carried him. He moaned weakly against the pain, the tears mingling with blood in his eyes causing them to sting.

The moon gleamed like fresh milk along the curves of their armored shoulders and polished breast plates. The spread wings of the Sona Royal House’s elegant falcon caught the white light and glowed for a moment, until the soldiers swung hard and released Min La’s ankles and wrists. He felt himself fly, a brief second of weightlessness, and then he landed hard on a pile of bodies. Through the blood in his eyes, Min La could just make out the head and neck of the soldiers who had tossed him as they bowed their heads and closed their eyes. He would not have expected executioners to pray to Ávoth for their slain.

“What use are prayers for the dead?” said the officer, his voice like a rough stone coated in smooth oil. “Don’t bother Ávoth; have we not already given him enough to do?” An arm clad in dark green silk, with vambraces of fine black leather pulled the praying soldier away from the edge of the ditch.

“If you insist on praying,” he went on, his voice fading as he walked out of sight and earshot, “pray that we can finish this quickly and all go home.”

The voices and the soldiers that belonged to them quickly disappeared leaving Min La in silence and darkness, though he was still conscious for several more minutes. Finally, a sleep like death took him for many days. By the time he woke it was night again but the moon was thinner and the air foul with the stench of the dead.

Min La woke in a shocked panic. He felt his throat form a cry, but it was stopped at his lips. A hand was clamped over his mouth. He flailed, struggling, but then the owner of the hand brought a lantern closer to illuminate his face. It was Ŏnin, the monk. Min La calmed.

“You must come,” Ŏnin whispered. Behind him So Ga was already awake, looking pale and frightened in the darkness. “I can hide you, but you must come quickly.”

“Hide us?” Min La asked, also in a whisper.

“There are men here, mercenaries if I’m not mistaken. I think they are looking for you.”

Min La’s breath came in ragged gasps. He felt his hand reach for his bag, for the knife inside. But the monk took him by the wrist and pulled him off his mattress.

“There’s no time for that.” He gathered up the bag and pushed it into Min La’s arms. “Follow me.”

So Ga and Ŏnin supported Min La as they half-ran, half-limped down the darkened halls of the temple. Several other monks were rushing back and forth, some with lanterns, most with their blue hoods pulled low.

They made their way by a circuitous route to the main, lighted chamber of the temple, where Ávoth smiled reassuringly at them from his perch above the altar.

“I don’t understand—” Min La began, confused as to how Ŏnin intended to hide them in such a central, well-lit place.

“Wait,” the monk said, leaving So Ga and Min La at the center of the room. He went to the west wall, to a section of the mural underneath the blackened cup of poison. With the tips of three fingers on each hand he pressed the top and the bottom of the cup. Min La saw then that the deep blackness of the painted cup concealed a small catch. Once pressed, a section of the wall opened slightly. The monk gestured to them as he pushed it open the rest of the way.

As they stared at the tiny doorway another monk came into the chamber.

“We cannot delay them much longer,” he reported to Ŏnin with a bow.

“I am coming,” Ŏnin answered. And he gestured to them again, more urgently this time.

It was So Ga who pulled Min La to the door in the wall. Min La didn’t like the idea of tucking himself into a little prison at the mercy of the monks’ thin promise to protect them. It wasn’t enough. But it was all they had.

He and So Ga bent low and slid into the tiny compartment. Inside was a simple shelf laden with candles in boxes. There was barely enough space for both of them to sit on the floor with their knees tucked against their chests.

“Please,” Ŏnin said, glancing at the knife hilt peeking out of Min La’s bag. “Trust me, and stay completely silent.” Then, without another word, he closed the door.

Min La expected the room to be blackened with darkness, but he was surprised to find that the light shone through the thin doorway which, he realized then, was little more than canvas stretched over a frame.

Glancing at So Ga, he saw that he was pale, but calm. The two nodded at each other and took slow, quiet breaths. Min La’s heart was hammering so powerfully in his chest he was surprised he couldn’t hear it.

The chamber had grown silent with Ŏnin’s departure. In time, however, voices returned. They recognized Ŏnin’s, as well as two other men. Min La’s breath quickened when he realized that only a thin layer of canvas divided them from two of the mercenaries who hunted them.

The three men’s shadows played like puppets across the stretched white canvas. The monks’ abundant candlelight, Min La knew, made their own shapes invisible in the darkness in their little room.

The two shadows that were not wearing the long, loose robes of Ávoth, paused in the temple chamber.

“If you’ll excuse me,” they heard Ŏnin said, “I must go make sure your men are not destroying my temple.” He sounded cross and irritable. Min La knew he was leaving them alone in here to give them the impression that he had nothing to hide. Still, the absence of the monk made him nervous, as if Ŏnin would have been able to do anything to stop the mercenaries from killing them if they were found.

Min La watched the shapes of the two remaining men turn and face the standing statue of Ávoth. They were very still. Min La didn’t dare breathe. He put a steadying hand on So Ga’s shoulder, who nodded once. So Ga’s face was pale and his brow knitted in intense concentration. Min La wished he could tell him to relax just a little. No one could hold a tensed muscle as long as they could a relaxed one. But in the utter quiet of the temple’s glowing chamber he worried the men could hear even the pounding of his heart, much less a whisper.

A cough broke the silence so abruptly that Min La nearly jumped. Not a cough, but a laugh.

“Take care, Ŏlo Hin,” said a heavy voice, in the tone of a reproach.

One of the shadows turned away from the statue of Ávoth with a wave of his hands and scoffed. The other turned. By his shadow he was a taller, his back straight, his figure imposing. Min La wondered if this was the captain Táno Gín he heard about.

He said, “You are in a temple of Ávoth, is nothing worth your respect?”

“I’ll never understand your obsession with Ávoth of all the Ădol. Always the rites, always the burials. Always the prayers. Do you not tire of it?”

“The dead demand our care.”

“What’s the use of prayers for the dead?”

Min La blinked and took his hand off So Ga’s shoulder. The words and the voice that spoke them repeated over and over in his head, an echo. One he recognized. He had heard them before. These very words, this very voice.

The other answered, “And when you’re dead? Will you have use for prayers then?”

“I will be dead. I’ll have use for nothing. Don’t bother Ávoth on my account. We keep him busy enough as it is.”

The more he spoke, the more certain Min La was that this voice was known to him. He recalled his dream, his memory, and the green-clad officer. How was it possible that that man was here among the mercenaries? Without thinking, Min La put his hand on the shape of his brother’s seal under his blue golt.

The taller shadow turned away from the statue and moved closer to the candles. Min La heard bare knuckles knocking on the painted plaster that decorated the temple walls. The other shadow, meanwhile, approached the altar steps and kicked lightly the stone table, which gave a solid report and not the hollow echo he seemed to have expected.

The shadow by the walls began to move methodically. Two steps, then a series of taps. Two more steps, more taps, and so on. His path around the perimeter of the temple chamber would bring him to the place where they hid behind the painted canvas in no time.

Min La touched the handle of the knife in his bag and considered the advantage a surprise attack might give him. So Ga watched his hand tighten around the knife hilt and his breathing quickened.

Two more steps, tap tap tap.

He was tired, but rested. His knee ached, but he could bend it. He had no armor, so he’d have to be careful. A well-aimed fist could put him on the ground as fast as any blade. And So Ga should not be counted upon in a fight.

Two more steps, tap tap tap.

So Ga’s breathing became suddenly darker, thicker. Like he was breathing through sand. He opened his mouth and clutched his chest. Min La recognized the signs immediately. He clamped his hands hard over So Ga’s mouth as he gasped against the urge to cough.

The situation had taken a sudden turn. He heard another series of taps, louder, closer. So Ga’s eyes clenched shut, one hand clawing at his chest while the other gripped Min La’s arm. He felt So Ga’s nails dig into his flesh. He felt him tremble with each aching, difficult breath.

Tap, tap, tap.

Min La pulled So Ga away from the false canvas wall and as deep into the little room as they could go. He had to pry the prince’s hands off his arms; his nails had left little half moons dotted with blood. Min La held So Ga tightly, his hand clamped over his mouth, not quite enough to smoother him. With his other arm, he pinned So Ga’s flailing, grasping arms at his sides. Min La knew that every breath must feel like fire in his lungs. He knew that So Ga would not be able to hold out forever. It surprised him, how strong he was.

Tap, tap, tap.

The man was already near the corner of the south wall. He would arrive at their section of mural in less than twenty steps.

He looked around for some way to hide So Ga in the little room. If they found just Min La he could claim to be a would-be thief. That is, until they found his silver medallion.

It didn’t matter anyway. The room was empty except for the small shelf of candles.

He would never be able to overpower both of them before they called for the rest. They couldn’t run with So Ga in this condition.

So Ga had managed to free his arms and had taken hold of Min La again. He let him dig his nails in. Maybe it would help.

Tap, tap, tap.

If they both ran out as fast as they could—

Min La stopped thinking. The last set of taps had sounded different from all the ones before. Hollow and echoing, like a drum. The difference had caught the full attention of both the men in the temple. They began knocking on this strange section of wall. Then the knocking became a harder, rougher sound. Before long, the wall gave way with a splintering of wood and tearing of canvas. And then there was silence.

Ŏnin chose that moment to rush into the temple chamber in a flurry of flapping fabric.

“Is it not enough,” he shouted, “for you to violate our sacred spaces with your pointless searching? Must you also lay waste to our temple and our art?”

“This wall is false.”

“That is because it is not a wall, you imbecile. It is a door. And if you had wanted it opened, you need only to have asked.”

Min La heard him handle the splintered remains of the wooden panel.

“This door has been a part of this temple for over nine decades. It is older than both of you. Will you show no respect for our holy things or our history?”

“Why is this room hidden?”

“It isn’t hidden. The chamber was designed with smooth walls to feature the sacred art seamlessly. But we still needed a place to store the candles. An ingenious monk designed this little door to disappear when it was closed. He’s long dead, so I doubt we’ll be able to fix it, now.” He let out a dramatic wail. “The beauty of the unbroken scene will never be the same.”

They pushed him aside and disappeared into the shadowed interior of the little candle room. It was quiet again while they searched among the shelves and boxes.

The monk spoke again. “Are you satisfied?” he yelled into the little room, bending to peer inside. “Do you want to take our candles as well? I’m sure I could find some other priceless item for you to break.”

“It’s just a door, old man,” said the voice that Min La knew. The familiar voice, the sound of which poured like something hot into his ears and filled his heart with steam.

“Enough,” the other man said to him sharply. Min La heard the soft clinking sound of a purse.

“Fix your wall. My men will leave as soon as they’ve searched the rest of your grounds.”

The monk shoved the little purse back at the man’s chest. “All the silver in the world will not repair what you’ve broken.”

They made no reply, but left the temple chamber rather quickly, as if fleeing, while the monk followed them. Min La could hear him continue his berating speech until his voice faded out of hearing.

Min La noticed then that So Ga had loosened his grip on his arm. His eyes were closed and he had gone limp. When Min La let go of him, he slumped into a little pile. Min La held his ear close to So Ga’s mouth.

The prince was no longer breathing.

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The forest by the mountain road

The wild again. The cold. Min La wrapped his coat around his shoulders and sat for a moment behind a tree to rest his aching knee. The low winter sun was already dipping behind the western range of the Osa Len Mountains and it was barely past noon. He would be traipsing through the forest in the dark if he didn’t hurry.

For a day and a half he and So Ga had been doubling back. But first they had argued about it. So Ga’s mood had been foul since they had left the Kodas on the mountain road. When Min La had suggested that they leave their belongings where they had hidden them and continue on to Osa Gate, matters had worsened.

Enraged, So Ga had refused to see the madness in returning to Tola Dol territory just for a bag of food and medicine.

“It is not the medicine,” he had snapped, eyes flashing. “If I don’t have the seal in Osa Gate you might as well kill me now in this forest.”

“We will die just as quickly if we’re caught again. We know that village is patrolled. We cannot take the risk.”

“We have to,” So Ga had insisted stubbornly. “You know it as well as I.”

They had argued for several more minutes until So Ga had stomped off into the forest only to trip and slide on his backside down a small hill. It would have been comical were they not both angry and still thrumming with nervous terror. For his part, Min La still trembled at the thought of the executioner’s blade slicing through the air for his neck. He felt restless, helpless, cornered by an enemy he could not see. His path had led him into a corner and there was no escape.

The enemy, of course, was himself. His choices had, time and again, brought them to the brink of disaster.

In the end, he had retrieved So Ga from where he had slid down the hill and then he had put him in a cave they had found behind a fallen ash tree. Limping back and forth across the opening, he had blocked it with a scattering of branches. Inside, he spent some time starting a fire with dried bits of leaves that were piled near the back of the cave. A fire was a risk, but the cold would kill the prince for certain. There was never a good option.

As the tiny flame sparked in the darkness, he had said, “You will wait here and I will go back.”

So Ga had stood, eyes wide. “No!” he yelled, his voice echoing inside the tiny stone space.

Something in So Ga’s face made Min La think that he no longer trusted him, though he couldn’t think of what might have changed in him. It was as if he believed that Min La would take his seal and their gold and abandon him. It had surprised Min La to find that he hadn’t even considered that.

“I can move faster on my own,” he had argued. “I am better at sneaking around unseen than you are.” After a pause he had added, “I will come back.”

So Ga had said nothing for a long time. He had stood with his fists clenched and lips tightened into a firm line. His dark eyes roved the interior of the cave, as if the ideal answer was etched somewhere on the stone walls.

“Your knee,” he had said at last.

Min La had shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”

Neither had had a choice in the matter. Both had known it. Min La had left So Ga in the cave before dawn. Walking — and sometimes running — as fast as he could, he had nearly reached the little abandoned village where they had left their bag five nights ago. The rough journey across the Osa Len foothills had been like needles in his knee. And so now, just within sight of the little village, he paused to rest.

He had seen no one in the forest since dawn. Perhaps the Tola Dol had been so anxious about angering the Koda that they had withdrawn entirely. And with the change in the Ŏklo House, soon, perhaps, Tola Dol would have no reason at all to patrol these lands. It didn’t matter; he still had to be careful.

Keeping to the shadows that cushioned each structure, he crept into the little village. The air was utterly empty, so much so that the grinding of the gravel under his boots seemed as loud as a hammer fall. In the silence, however, he could hear nothing else. The village was empty, he was sure of it.

It took longer to find the little house where they had hidden that night, but when he did he slipped along the shaded side of it looking for a shadow-shrouded way to enter. The only one he found — a shutter with a thin frame of wood covered over with thin wooden slats — was stuck closed by neglect. So he crept to the front of the house to use the door.

Inside, the afternoon darkness was thicker and he took a moment to let his eyes adjust. Then, after pausing to rub his knee, he went to the back of the little house to find the place where So Ga had hidden their bag.

A spot under a board, he had said. Under a window in the eastern corner.

The interior of the little house was less cold than the crisp winter air in the forest, which was a small relief, considering. Min La’s rest outside the village had made the ache in his knee more noticeable. He was tired, exhausted, and he still had the trek back. They hadn’t eaten anything but berries and herbs since the Koda heir had given them broth. Moving soundlessly through the little house, Min La knew that this was both a waste of time and something that he had to do. So Ga was right, after all. Without his seal at Osa Gate, the two of them would be no one at all.

It wasn’t until he turned the corner leading from the little front room to the back of the house that he heard the sound.

It was a soft clinking, the unmistakable music of coins. Min La froze and reached for his chest— but his bag and the knife hidden in it were not there. Turning toward the sound he saw a figure crouched in a corner, his bulk occupying the space just under the window. At his feet rested a board that had been pulled up from the dusty floor, exposing a space under the house.

The man heard Min La and looked up. He seemed just as surprised as Min La, and, with a start, dropped what was in his hand.

Min La’s silver medallion fell onto the bag, clinking sharply against the purse of gold. His attention was so fixed on the bag — where he could see the sheathed silver dagger Nŏl had given him — that he did not at first look at the man.

But then the crouching figure stood and Min La’s breath caught in his throat. His dark gray cloak was mud spattered and his boots almost white with dust. But his black suede golt was clean. The crisp material was night-dark in the dimly-lit room where the only light came seeping in from the hole in the floor.

Táno Gín’s men had found him. In that moment, the first thought that entered Min La’s mind was one of relief. He was relieved that he had left So Ga in the cave in the woods, relieved he was alone.

His second thought was significantly more helpful. This man, this mercenary, was just as alone as he was. Probably a scout, he realized. Táno Gín had likely sent several of his men in all directions into the forest around the mountain road. It occurred to him then that Táno Gín would be growing desperate to catch them — or So Ga, at least — especially now that they were so close to Osa Gate.

In the swirl of seconds that immediately followed, several other disconnected thoughts came to color Min La’s mind. He remembered the shining sword of the executioner, and the terror on the face of So Ga. He thought of the pain in his knee, the cold clamped tightly around his bones. He thought of So Ga’s dead bodyswords, of his distant royal father, of the Koda House abandoning them on the road, of Sivo Hin Ŏklo sending bandits to kill them. He thought, too, of his own House, piled dead in ditches in Hin Dan.

He thought of So Ga, alone in a cave waiting for him, trusting him to come back.

How many times had Min La’s path intersected with a sword? How many times had the Ădol demanded of him payment in blood? And for what? Why did he continue? How? What power in him put one foot in front of another? He should have given up days ago. Why did he continue?

These thoughts rose up in his mind like a cacophony of voices from a taunting crowd, a wave of noise that grew into a shrill cry which, at last, he realized was coming from his own throat.

He ran across the darkened room and lowered his shoulder, colliding with the mercenary at full speed. He felt the man buckle, he heard him gasp when Min La slammed his shoulder into his stomach. They fell as a knot of scrabbling limbs and muscles against the wall of the house. The mercenary slid to the side, his foot caught in the opening in the floor.

Min La reached over and grasped blindly for his bag. His fingers brushed the chain that held his brother’s seal, they stabbed into the purse and felt the cold shock of the crisp gold. Then, at last, he felt the coarse hilt of the dagger.

Wrenching it free from its sheath, he stabbed blindly, but the blade met wood. The mercenary had dodged, ducking his body to avoid Min La’s slender knife. His foot was still stuck in the hole, trapping him in an awkward half-seated position. As Min La drew back, the man grasped at his foot with one hand and the scabbard on his hip with the other. Min La could see that he was trying to decide which was more urgent.

Min La did not hesitate. Pushing aside the mercenary’s well-timed block, he fell against him again, using the weight of his body to drive the blade through his chest. The man gasped, his arms clutched Min La’s shoulders, fingers clawing at his back and arms. Min La pulled himself free, removing the knife. And then he plunged it in again. His arms burned, his chest burned, his knee felt like it had been replaced by a piece of hot metal. But he stabbed again and again until the man stopped moving.

Then he fell back, sprawled on the floor with the dead man’s blood cooling on his hands and on the front of his golt. The knife was still stuck in the mercenary’s chest, blood pooling under him and creeping across the wooden boards to the opening in the floor. Min La rolled onto his side and plucked the bag out of the hole, squeezing it around the mercenary’s trapped leg. Then he hugged it to his chest and lay still for several minutes trying to catch his breath.

In time, he sat up. Without looking at the dead mercenary, he took stock of the bag’s contents, relieved to find that everything was there, especially So Ga’s golden seal — wrapped tightly in a spare golt — and his brother’s martial seal, which he quickly put on, feeling a wave of calm when he felt the cold metal against his trembling chest.

Yanking the blade out of the mercenary’s chest, he cleaned it on his dark gray cloak and then put it back in its sheath. Then he looped the bag over his head to rest against his chest.

Glancing back at the dead mercenary, a certain hollowness filled him. A question came and needled its way into his mind. What did he die for, this nameless man? Min La killed him to save himself, to save So Ga. But why did he die? Was payment motivation enough to risk dying alone in a little abandoned village in the Osa Len Mountains? Was there honor in the company of Táno Gín? Was honor the thing that had driven these men to pursue them relentlessly across Sona Gen? What honor was there in the murder of a prince?

Though he wasn’t entirely sure why he did it, Min La went to the dead man and unfastened the cloak from his shoulders. This he draped over his gaping, dead face. Then he took his foot out of the hole in the floor and arranged his legs neatly. When he was found by his comrades, no one would know that he had died because of something as ridiculous as a foot stuck in a hole. Whatever honor he had had, perhaps he could keep it. Min La heard himself mutter a word to Ávoth, then he put the dagger into his bag and left.

It was nearly dawn before he made it back to the cave where So Ga waited. Collapsing exhausted upon the leaf-littered stone floor, he pushed the bag into So Ga’s arms.

“I was beginning to get worried,” So Ga said, holding the bag in his lap, but looking at Min La.

“I ran into a little trouble,” Min La answered as he leaned against the cave wall and began to massage his knee. There was blood on the front of his golt and a little on his hands still. He was too tired to hide it.

Tying his dirty hair into a loose knot, he said, “Let me sleep for a couple hours, then we’ll go.”

“Are you alright?”

Min La closed his eyes. “My knee hurts a little. That’s all.”

“I mean…”

When he didn’t continue, Min La opened his eyes again and looked at him. So Ga had seen the blood on his clothes and stared at it with dim eyes.

“I’m fine. I didn’t get a scratch,” he said. “None of this is my blood.”

“What you did…” So Ga trailed off again. He had plunged his hands into the bag and was blindly fishing for the gold seal. “What you did,” he repeated, but stopped again as he continued to dig around in the bag.

With a sigh, Min La took it from him. He found the rolled-up golt and pulled So Ga’s seal from within. Without much ceremony, he handed it out to him. So Ga stared at it for a long time without moving.

“What you did,” he began again, extending one hand to take the shining chain and its heavy pendant. “In the camp back there. What you did, you can’t do that again.”

Min La blinked in surprise. “Do you mean when I pretended to be you?” Was that why So Ga had been angry with him? Because he had presumed to present himself as the prince? Min La shook his head. “I only did that because—”

“No, not that.” The chain was like a pool of gold in So Ga’s palm, one end trickling over his thumb. He stared at it, moving the little pool so it caught the sparse light of the tiny fire. Min La waited, his brow creased.

“They were going to kill you,” So Ga said at last. “You didn’t have a plan, did you? You were going to let them kill you?”

“Ah, that,” Min La said with a sigh. “To be honest, I didn’t give it much thought at the time—”

“You were going to let them kill you. You took the blame for the dead soldier. You gave them your head. To protect me, you were going to die.”

Min La felt his heart quicken. So Ga words brought him swiftly back to the cold mud and the blinding light of dawn as the sun sliced across the swung blade, severing his mind from his actions. He had felt himself float suddenly away from his body, he had felt himself drawn apart from the events. In a sense, he hadn’t yet snapped back. Ever since the blade had lifted — and then never fallen — he had felt himself holding a strained breath. So Ga’s words were like a tether, a hook in his ribs pulling him back to reality.

He didn’t know why he had done what he did. Nor did he understand his own prolonged sense of shock. It was not, after all, the first time he had nearly died. But on that day, all those years ago, he had died for something clear, for his family, for his failed attempts to save them and himself. He didn’t have an explanation to offer So Ga. Instead he just sat in silence, rubbing his fingers.

“You can’t do that ever again,” So Ga said sharply.

Min La stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“You cannot give your life to protect mine. If they’re going to kill me, you have to let them and save yourself.”

Min La laughed lightly. But he stopped as soon as he saw the dark look in So Ga’s eyes.

Gathering all the confidence he could into his tired voice, he said, “They didn’t kill me.”

“But they would have.”

“I am not the crown prince, So Ga. I am a Houseless beggar. You are the one who needs to survive, not me.”

“We both need to survive.”

“We both did.”

So Ga shook his head. His hand clamped shut around the golden pool. “You can’t do that again. You can’t throw your life away for mine. Never again.”

“But you will be king,” Min La said gently. “What will happen to Láokoth if you die?”

“Whether I live or die makes no difference. We both know I can’t do anything for Láokoth.”

“You can when you’re king.”

So Ga shook his head. “You can’t give your life for mine. I order it.”

With a small smile Min La answered, “You aren’t king yet, Your Highness.”

They left before daybreak. Min La had managed only an hour or two of sleep, but So Ga seemed rested enough. Still, they were both shivering from the cold, they were both stiff, pale, hungry, exhausted. After only half a day of walking, Min La had had to lean on So Ga for support as his knee was almost too stiff to bend. They hobbled along like this, keeping to the densely packed forest to the west of the mountain road, until they found themselves upon a narrow path.

“We’ll follow it,” Min La said, gesturing. “This will take us to a village.”

By the time the stars were brightest in the night sky, they finally saw the first structures and bright lanterns of a small mountain village. A single stone marker indicated their arrival, but it was too dark to make out the village name.

So Ga’s breathing had become labored as Min La’s weight became too much for him to support. Surveying the structures, Min La at last saw, nestled in a copse of maple trees on the outskirts of the little village, the pale stone wall of a small temple.

“There,” he said.

So Ga nodded and they hobbled over. They didn’t pause to see what kind of a temple it was; in truth, it didn’t matter. All temples were safe havens for travelers on the road.

In the end, Min La had to sit on the stone step next to the temple gate while So Ga rang the little bell with some urgency, pulling the thick blue rope again and again. Min La wanted to tell him not to be quite so panicked, after all, this wasn’t exactly an emergency.

But then he glanced at the thickening blackness of the forest. He knew the mercenaries were in there somewhere, possibly closer than they even realized. Gripping his aching knee, he thought, too, of their need for shelter, for food, for warmth…

So Ga continued to ring the bell.

At last a little monk wrenched open the narrow gate. He was not young, nor was he old; his shaved head made it hard to determine his age, exactly. Staring at both of them with wide eyes and an open mouth, he said nothing for several seconds, until finally he blurted out, “Do you think if you ring it with greater intensity I will suddenly be able to move my ancient legs with greater speed?”

So Ga bowed. “I’m sorry, please. My brother…” and he gestured to Min La who was trying to stand up.

The monk’s eyes went immediately to Min La’s golt, and he only remembered at that moment that he still wore the blood of the mercenary he had killed. There was nothing to be done about it now. So Min La made no effort to hide it.

Try though he might, Min La was only able to get himself onto his good knee. When he reached out for So Ga’s help, the prince instead fell to his knees next to him.

“Please,” So Ga said again. “Please help us.”

The sudden sight of the two young men on their knees in supplication snapped the monk out of his apparent irritated shock. He waved his hands and said, “No, no, my sons. I am just surprised, is all. We see so few pilgrims at our gate, you understand.”

Min La looked up in confusion as the man came over to help both of them to their feet. Both he and So Ga had to work to hoist him upright. When he was standing he leaned against the monk in an effort to spare So Ga.

With his free hand the monk gestured to the arch over the gate where a carved bas-relief in the stones depicted a beardless man standing guard over a flowing river.

“You see,” the monk said. “Not many will stop here casually. This is a House of Ávoth.”

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Chapter Fifty-Six

The Palace dimmed in waves. Pink crept in first, a thick coat of it deepening between structures, dense beneath the walls and the corners of staircases. Then came blue, like a wash of ink spreading across a length of embroidered linen. It smoothed the corners of rooftops, dusted the pale stone of the roads and draped a layer of velvet over the places where the shadows were thickest.

Éna Lí stood by her window and watched. Evening troubled her, the spread of blue like a threat sliding soundless across the road behind her. She feared the silence and the darkness. She feared blindness.

Her residence was in the place that had once been occupied by the former master of the Palace House. The old fool had been dead for days, not that it made any difference. Éna Lí had had control over the Palace House for almost a decade. Following her orders, her men had put the old Housemaster’s body in the soil outside the walls. The Palace House was hers. The Palace was hers. The king was nearly hers. But still she perceived that there were parts of her vision that were covered over with blackness. Nothing troubled her more than uncertainty.

For one thing, the prince was still alive. And now that old fool Balo Sonen was acting against her, eager to save the prince in order to control him. Éna Lí needed the boy dead. Her plan would fall apart if anyone from the Spring Courtyard survived.

She couldn’t blame Balo. She had managed to win him to her side by convincing him that he would be able to control the king’s heir, the weak princeling raised isolated in the Spring Courtyard. But her recent actions, her decision to eliminate the four little princes, had made Balo her enemy, but that didn’t matter. He had served his purpose. And he was not powerful enough to overcome her.

But if he found the prince — if anyone found the prince — and from him learned the secret that she hid, decades of labor would fall away in an instant. She had slaughtered the entire Spring Courtyard to protect that secret. She had risked her control over the king, she had sacrificed one of her most valuable weapons over him, all to protect her secret.

As the blue of late evening was overtaken by the inky thickness of a moonless, starless night, Éna Lí left her residence together with several maids and four swords.

They walked without haste to the other side of the Palace grounds, to the residence of the Grand Steward were Lŭ Lin Ăvan had been confined ever since the fire.

Éna Lí had never felt easy with the presence of Lŭ Lin in the Palace. When the king was young and his reign was only just beginning, Éna Lí had not yet had enough control over him to prevent her appointment. Lŭ Lin Ăvan was shrewd and she was loyal. The combination was dangerous.

Éna Lí had hoped that cutting off her own hand would have killed the Grand Steward. But the woman was proving to be as resilient as she was loyal. Though greatly weakened, both in body and in spirit, she was not dead. Had Lŭ Lin not managed to save herself in the old way Éna Lí would have been able to force the king to have her executed. Even now she watched Lŭ Lin closely for any excuse to force the king’s hand.

After all, the Grand Steward had had access to the Spring Courtyard right before the massacre. There was a chance — however slim — that she knew Éna Lí’s secret as well. And try though she might, Éna Lí couldn’t think of a way to kill her without attracting attention. Imprisoning her had been all she could do. But even this left her feeling anxious.

Because of this, she had not had an easy moment since Kío En Tolen had spent an entire afternoon and evening upon the king’s stairs five days ago. Éna Lí was not foolish enough to think that he had actually come to beg for an audience; Kío En was too savvy to risk his reputation in such a public display of humiliation. No, the king’s Oak Hand had had some other purpose. It had not escaped Éna Lí’s notice that the prime minister’s ridiculous act had come mere days after he had visited his sister-in-law, the imprisoned Grand Steward. The longer she had watched him, the more certain she had become that he was serving as a distraction. But this realization had come too late. When she sent her swords to search the Palace for Nălo, Kío En’s attendant — a man as mindless and as faithful as a dog — both were already gone and the Palace gates closed behind them.

It did not take long for them to learn that while his master had been upon the stairs begging for the king’s ear, Nălo had been elsewhere in the Palace. Éna Lí’s men had reported that he had been seen coming from the direction of the queen consort’s empty residence. When they went there to investigate they had found evidence of occupation. Someone, she did not know who, had been living in secret there for some days. And had, presumably, been smuggled out of the Palace in the carriage of the Oak Hand. And all of this had come to pass only after Kío En Tolen had visited Lŭ Lin.

But who had he taken out of the Palace? Did Lŭ Lin still have maids faithful to her hiding on the Palace grounds? Or had it been one of Éna Lí’s own Palace House? Had she been betrayed?

As the days passed Éna Lí had become convinced that this matter, this uncertainty, was a threat that grew with each passing moment. This blindness, together with the behavior of the prime minister, represented something she did not know and could not see. Lŭ Lin and Kío En bore between them a secret, a hidden piece of this delicate game that had slipped out of Éna Lí’s control.

She could not touch the prime minister, not yet anyway. So there was only one thing to do.

The gate in the wall that surrounded Lŭ Lin’s residence was opened by a startled little man with the fog of drink in his eyes. Éna Lí took one look at him, his swaying body and his lazy gaze, and she motioned to her swords, two of whom took the man by the arms and dragged him away. He would be killed later tonight and a new, more vigilant guard put in his place.

The other two swords went ahead. The Grand Steward’s garden was neatly trimmed and readied for winter, but the recent rains had made it slick with a coating of black mud. The guards’ boots dug furrows through the smooth earth and Éna Lí could not help but feel some satisfaction watching as the neatness and order was all trampled underfoot.

Without knocking, they opened Lŭ Lin’s door. Her maids — who were all Éna Lí’s maids — fell into startled bows; a general wave of alarm flowed through the small residence no doubt reaching Lŭ Lin within seconds of Éna Lí entering the painted foyer.

Neither she nor her men removed their shoes. The guards moved through the residence swiftly, checking for anyone who might be hidden away. Then they returned to their mistress and offered a nod to confirm that there was nothing amiss. Their boots had left a coat of mud throughout. There were even spatters upon the painted Ădol on the foyer walls.

Motioning for the men to stay behind, Éna Lí went into the residence, several of her maids following her, their heads bowed and their hands clasped before them. She did not have to search for long. Lŭ Lin was, as usual, sitting behind her desk in the room of glass where she kept and tended her plants and flowers. Stepping into the room — which was lighted by only a few lanterns and warmed only slightly by a low stove — she was pleased to see that many of the plants had begun to whither. Few things gave Éna Lí more pleasure than the sight of beauty decaying. She knew, of course, that her own beauty would never decay. In this she perceived a profound superiority over all living things, but especially when those living things began to whither.

Coming near to the desk, her black velvet coat shining gold in the lantern light, she clasped her hands before her and offered a mocking bow. “My dear Lŭ Lin,” she said in her musical voice. “How good it is to see you up and about. You have much improved since last I saw you.”

Lŭ Lin offered a stiff bow. She wore a simple golt of lavender wool and over it a cloak of light blue velvet. She was trying to hide her bandaged stump while her maid, that Sen Na girl who followed her like a pet, adjusted the shoulders of her cloak and then stood just behind her mistress’s chair, a look of frightened vigilance upon her fair, young face.

On the table before Lŭ Lin rested a tray of dishes; fragrant chicken covered in a sweet-smelling syrup, a bowl of potato and chestnut stew, and several small bowls of preserved vegetables. Lŭ Lin had a small plate in front of her on which had been placed a single slice of the chicken. It appeared that Éna Lí had interrupted her dinner. Next to the tray rested a small black glass cup and dark vial with a jeweled stopper, the gindun that the king had gifted Lŭ Lin behind Éna Lí’s back. She felt a quickening of anger when she saw it.

The Grand Steward said, “I have to thank the maids you have given to me for their tireless ministrations. I have indeed recovered quickly thanks to their aid.”

“Ah,” Éna Lí said, tucking her hands into the sleeves of her black velvet coat. “Then you will have no further need of this rich food.”

With a glance she ordered her maids to remove the tray from Lŭ Lin’s table. She did not seem moved by this, though Sen Na looked grieved as even the plate with the single piece of meat was taken away.

“And as you have recovered so well,” Éna Lí went on, “you will have no need of this.”

And she picked up of the vial of gindun with its jeweled stopper and slipped it into her pocket.

Lŭ Lin said nothing. Sen Na looked quite stricken, gripping the back of her mistress’s chair until her knuckles were white. But Lŭ Lin was unmoved.

“If that is His Majesty’s wish,” she said with a slight bow.

“His Majesty,” Éna Lí repeated with a scoff. “The one whose son is now dead because of you. He would kill you if he could do so without alerting the court to the tragedy. It is only his need for secrecy that has spared your life. I’m sure you understand this.”

Lŭ Lin bowed her head again. Sen Na, eyes flashing, opened her mouth to speak but her mistress put her one hand on the girl’s arm and she was silent.

Éna Lí said, “His Majesty has ordered that you are to be given only broth and water until he is satisfied that you have been sufficiently punished. You understand that His Majesty’s son is dead and his grief is boundless, so this time may never come.”

Lŭ Lin lifted her eyes and said with a gentle smile. “My dear Éna Lí, His Majesty is a most just monarch. And he is always aware of the pride of the Houses. I am sure he knows best how to punish this unfortunate woman in a way that will not risk the wrath of the Houses.”

Éna Lí wanted to strike her. Lŭ Lin was right, of course. And it infuriated Éna Lí that she could not contradict her. Killing the Grand Steward, she knew, would be a drastic action that would attract the attention of more than just the Ăvan House, but also Lăsoth, whose Housemaster watched the king and the whole Palace with uniquely perceptive vigilance. She would do well to avoid making Bo Han Lăsoth an enemy. Lŭ Lin knew it and she was, in her way, pointing it out.

Éna Lí took a steadying breath and switched her tactic. “Your brother-in-law must have visited you when he came to the Palace five days ago.”

Lŭ Lin’s face flickered, the light in her eyes like the flame of a guttering candle. She said nothing.

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Éna Lí murmured. “He made such an unnecessary fool of himself, begging for His Majesty’s attention like an orphan boy on the street begging passers-by for scraps. Perhaps if you had known you could have stopped him. But alas…” and she made a dramatic glance around Lŭ Lin’s little glass room, implying that they both knew she was a prisoner here and was, in every respect, utterly powerless.

Éna Lí moved around the table, and the child Sen Na cowered away, tripping over her own feet as she backed towards the night-blacked windows behind her.

She brushed her hands along the back of Lŭ Lin’s chair, a casual gesture. The air in the room was very still, so still they could hear the quiet murmur of Lŭ Lin’s stove.

With a gentle motion Éna Lí lifted the Grand Steward’s long dark hair for where it was tucked under her cloak, and began to undo the braid that bound it. Lŭ Lin did not move, but Sen Na began to tremble.

With her hand in the shape of a claw, Éna Lí stroked her fingers through Lŭ Lin’s hair. The long strands shone like caramel in the lantern light. She was, in truth, a beautiful woman despite her stump. Éna Lí felt a sudden desire to drag her fingernails through Lŭ Lin’s face, to dig bloody furrows through her beauty, and even to tear out her shining, lovely eyes.

“Unless, of course,” Éna Lí said, while her hands stroked Lŭ Lin’s long, soft hair, “unless Kío En Tolen was there upon those stairs by your command.”

“My dear Éna Lí,” Lŭ Lin answered evenly. “You must be confused. How could I give commands to the prime minister?”

Éna Lí’s fingers raked more roughly through Lŭ Lin’s hair. “We both know that your brother-in-law would do anything to help his dead wife’s sister.” Bending to whisper into her ear, Éna Lí went on, “I know he came to you. I know you spoke to him. I have heard about your ‘missing spoon’.”

“I don’t—”

Lŭ Lin’s even voice broke with a sudden cry as Éna Lí gripped a fistful of hair and pulled. The Grand Steward’s head wrenched back, baring her pale throat to the lantern light.

Sen Na lunged forward and grasped Éna Lí’s wrist. But she turned and slapped her away. The girl fell to the floor, bleeding from a cut on her lip. Éna Lí could feel Lŭ Lin pull against her grip on her hair in an effort to look at her maid.

Abruptly, Éna Lí let go and put her hands on Lŭ Lin’s shoulders.

“As you are feeling so much better,” she said, gently squeezing Lŭ Lin’s arms, “I see no reason for you to have so many maids around you. After all, would it not be better for there to be fewer in your residence, so that you can have peace and quiet to think about the ways in which you have disappointed His Majesty?”

Then, turning, she took Sen Na by the arm and dragged her to her feet.

“I will take this one into the Palace House. She can serve my swords, who have more need of fair maids than you do.”

Sen Na let out a soft cry, her eyes fixed in confused horror upon her mistress. Though she resisted, Éna Lí did not even need both hands to control the girl. Gripping her forearm, she twisted until Sen Na wailed and looked away from Lŭ Lin, her concentration fixed instead on the point of pain under Éna Lí’s hand.

You see, Éna Lí thought with a private smile, pain severs all bonds of kinship.

Without pausing to see how the Grand Steward might react to this development, Éna Lí took Sen Na and began to leave the glass room.

Lŭ Lin stood and held out her one hand. “Please,” she said. “Do not harm the child.”

“Harm her?” Éna Lí stopped and glanced back. “Is it not an honor to serve in the Palace House?”

Then, motioning to her maids, Éna Lí left Lŭ Lin and made her way to the painted, mud-coated foyer. There the swords opened the door for her and she went out into the cold.

The wind had built into gusts that tugged at her coat and cut through her skin. Sen Na continued to struggle against her grasp and Lŭ Lin, pale as the moon and trembling, followed, holding the skirts of her golt in her one hand while she pressed her stump to her chest. Her cloak had fallen from her shoulders and was gathered in the crook of her left arm, trailing behind her like half-shed skin. She stumbled, holding herself upright against the walls of her residence.

“Please, Éna Lí,” she called from her porch as Éna Lí reached the gate in her wall. “Please. The girl is innocent. She has no part to play in Palace games. Leave her be.”

When Éna Lí paused and turned back, Sen Na buckled in her grip and fell to her knees. She was crying, a shrill childish sound that set Éna Lí’s nerves on edge. Lŭ Lin’s long hair moved like a length of silk in the wind. She leaned against one of the narrow wooden pillars on the porch, her bandaged stump exposed, her face contorted by fear.

“Do you not understand?” Éna Lí said, not bothering to conceal her satisfaction. “Kío En Tolen endeavors to undermine the king. He must have placed spies in your residence. For His Majesty’s safety I will remove everyone whom I do not myself trust.”

“Kío En Tolen is the king’s Oak Hand,” Lŭ Lin said. “He serves the king. He is faithful.”

“Does he serve the king by sneaking people out of the Palace?” Éna Lí snapped.

Lŭ Lin’s face changed. She held her breath and let both arms fall to her sides. Her cloak dropped into a pale blue puddle of velvet. Then she fell to her knees.

She said, “I know nothing of what he has done. Please spare the child. She has been by my side and knows no more than I.”

Éna Lí left Sen Na kneeling on the stone road outside Lŭ Lin’s gate. Going to the Grand Steward she leaned close and said, “Do you think I am a fool? Do you think I do not know what happens inside my own Palace?”

“If you wish to punish someone, punish me, not the girl. Leave her be, I beg of you.”

“You beg?” Éna Lí sneered. “You have no need to beg. You have only to tell me what Kío En Tolen took out of the Palace.”

Lŭ Lin’s breath came in gasps. She again pressed her bandaged stump against her chest. Her shoulders shook and her face was ashen.

“I do not know what you mean,” she said in a shaking whisper.

Behind Éna Lí, Sen Na’s mewling became loud, hitching sobs.

“Please,” Lŭ Lin said again, “spare Sen Na. I am your enemy, Éna Lí. Not the girl.”

Éna Lí thought for a moment. Standing upright, she looked between mistress and maid. Then she smiled.

“Indeed, you’re right.”

Reaching into her coat, she unsheathed a short silver dagger. The torches that lit the road shone against the blade making it glow red. Taking Lŭ Lin again by the hair, Éna Lí yanked her to her feet. The woman was silent, though she struggled as she was pulled through her muddy garden, past her gate, and into the road. Sen Na reached out for her as they passed, but her hand merely touched the mud-splashed hem of her lavender golt.

In the middle of the Palace road, Éna Lí pushed Lŭ Lin to her knees and, looking fixedly at Sen Na, she put the blade to her mistress’s throat.

“Now, child,” she said to Sen Na. “Tell me who Kío En Tolen took from this Palace and I will spare your mistress.”

“Say nothing,” Lŭ Lin yelled. “She can’t—”

But Éna Lí wrenched her head back by the hair until Lŭ Lin’s neck was bent in such a way she could no longer speak. The blade kissed the Grand Steward’s bare throat and a single thread of shining red blood trickled to her collarbone.

“I will kill her,” Éna Lí said to Sen Na. “Will you tell me or will you let me cut her throat? Decide.”

Sen Na clasped her hands together and placed them under her chin. Tears mingled on her face with mud from the garden and with blood from her cut lip. Her wide eyes were white fires of terror. Each breath she took shook her entire body which quivered in a limp heap in the middle of the Palace road.

Clasping her eyes shut, she shook her head.

“Very well,” Éna Lí said. The blade glinted red like a needle of flame when she lifted it into the air. Sen Na opened her eyes and watched as Éna Lí began to bring the knife down to her mistress’s neck.

“The servant!” she shouted at last. And then she clamped both hands over her mouth and let out a shrill, animal wail, bending over her knees as her shoulders shook with sobs.

Éna Lí turned to her with a crooked smile. Success filled her with pleasure.

“Servant?” she asked, still holding Lŭ Lin by the hair. She began to put her knife away.

Sen Na answered through her tears. “The one who was condemned.” Rocking back and forth, she covered with face with her hands. In a muffled voice she added, “He didn’t die that night.”

The pleasure vanished in an instant. Letting go of Lŭ Lin, Éna Lí gestured to her maids and her swords. Startled by the sudden order, they lurched into formation around her as she walked away from the Grand Steward’s residence.

Leaving Lŭ Lin and Sen Na in the middle of the road, Éna Lí quickly left, her chest hot with panic.

It couldn’t be true. The very servant who had been condemned to die, the one who had attempted to escape the Palace with Éna Lí’s secret the night before the massacre, the one who had—

It couldn’t be true. He couldn’t possibly be alive. And now he was in the hands of the prime minister! It couldn’t be true.

Turning, she spoke to one of her swords. “Whatever men we have in the city, send them to watch Kío En Tolen’s estate. If so much as a mouse moves I want to hear about it.”

The guard bowed and ran to carry out her orders.

Lŭ Lin went to Sen Na where she knelt in a knot of misery, sobbing into her lap in the middle of the road. Kneeling beside her, she gently put her hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” the girl sobbed through her arms. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

But Lŭ Lin shushed her. Lifting her by the shoulders, she took Sen Na’s face in her hand and looked into her eyes.

“It is not a fault to protect the ones you love,” she said.

“But you would not have given in,” Sen Na answered through her tears.

Lŭ Lin nodded once and wrapped her arms around her maid, stroking her head with her hand while weakening sobs hitched through the girl’s trembling body. “Maybe I wouldn’t have,” she said quietly. “And perhaps that, too, would have been wrong. But it doesn’t matter anymore. It is in his hands now, and in the hands of the Ădol. There is nothing more for us to do but protect each other.”

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Chapter Fifty-Five

1

Gin Ja Koda dismissed the servants who waited upon the Koda Hall as she entered it. They all bowed and left through the nearest doors, all of which were shut behind them, until only the Koda high family remained.

Shining amber-colored lanterns hung from the darkly stained beams that crossed the ceiling. White walls swam with gold; the air was thick with the smell of candle wax and resin. In the corner an incense burner emitted a thin thread of fragrant smoke. Tá Nom’s mother would not easily abandon her southern ways.

The Koda Housemaster sat upon an ornately carved chair of dark, shining oak. The seat and arms were covered in blue velvet, which shone like salted water in the lantern light. After she sat, Săn Lí and Nola Nan took their seats near to hers. Nola Nan’s velvet covered bench was a little behind Săn Lí’s, as she had married into the family and did not officially manage any of its affairs. Gin Ja, however, believed that the Housemaster’s wife ought to aid her husband in his duties, and wanted Nola Nan to be prepared when the time came.

Tá Nom did not sit, not yet. He unfastened his cloak and stripped off his gloves while his mother poured herself tea. He stood and he waited.

At last Gin Ja lifted her tea cup to her lips, blowing lightly on the steaming liquid. Then she motioned to the seat next to hers. And Tá Nom bowed before sitting.

While his mother listened, he explained all that had happened at the Tolo Dol camp. He described the two young men, their dress, their behavior. He repeated for the Koda Housemaster every word they had said. His mother didn’t speak; she sipped her tea and listened, her eyes partly closed.

When he related how one of the young men had seemed particularly protective of the other, she opened her eyes. Tá Nom paused, but she still said nothing, so he went on.

Having finished the accounting, he bowed his head and put his hands on his knees.

“That is everything?” Gin Ja asked.

“Yes,” he replied with a bow.

Tá Nom sometimes had difficulty deciding how to address his mother. When his father had been alive, Tá Nom had never once called him “father”, but always “my lord”. His mother had always seemed to him to be his father’s counterpart, and yet she had also been his mother. To call her anything less seemed to him a diminishment. Yet he was concerned about showing undue familiarity with the master of their House. She had never clarified what she expected of him, likely because she wanted him to make his own decision. Nevertheless, it still troubled him from time to time. Never more than when they were alone. Did he obey her and trust her because she was his mother? Or because she was his Housemaster? Both, surely. But did she command him as his mother, or as his Housemaster? Perhaps it didn’t matter.

Gin Ja put her empty tea cup on the table that sat between her seat and her son’s. Tá Nom lifted the clay pot and refilled it.

She said, “And they are now…”

“Gone. Into the woods west of the mountain road.”

She lay her wrists on the velvet arms of the chair. “Very well,” she said quietly.

Nola Nan’s velvet bench squeaked in the silence. Tá Nom glanced at her and saw her run her pale hands over her stomach. He felt, then, a tug in his focus. Like an iron hook was somewhere in his heart, pulling him away from matters that required his attention. Nola Nan had been greatly grieved by the death of their second baby. He worried every day that she might not survive a third. In a few weeks time, she would give birth and they would have to enter the four week confinement, sealed within their residence with the infant until the weeks elapsed— or Ávoth took the child, as he had the last two. The last baby, a girl, had survived twenty-six days. On the morning of the twenty-seventh, her tiny body had been cold and emptied of breath. And so Tá Nom had taken her in his arms and used the silver knife to cut the blue silk ribbon that sealed the door. As was the Koda custom, they buried her quietly in a small box stained blue, and planted an ash tree to mark the spot.

It was said that Ávoth was fond of the people of Láokoth and so took many of them for himself. But Koda had given too many.

Tá Nom had given too many.

Gin Ja turned from her son to her daughter.

“You have heard from your girl in the Ŏklo estate?”

Săn Lí bowed her head before answering. The translucent golden veil gleamed in the lantern light making it look like gold had been spun through her long brown hair. She said, “The two young men identified themselves as brothers traveling from Hin Dan.”

“Hin Dan?”

“Yes.”

“A strange choice,” Gin Ja murmured. “Perhaps it was meant to discourage attention.”

Săn Lí offered, “Perhaps one of them is from Hin Dan.”

Gin Ja looked at her. “Meaning?”

“If one of them is the prince, perhaps the other is one of his body doubles.” She turned to her brother. “You said they looked alike?”

Tá Nom nodded once. “They did.”

Săn Lí looked at her mother. “Perhaps one of the other little princes came from Hin Dan. As he knew it, he was confident using it as a concealment.”

But Gin Ja shook her head. “The other three little princes are dead.”

Săn Lí paled and even Tá Nom felt his breath quicken.

“It is possible that you are right, however,” Gin Ja went on. “This living prince might be from Hin Dan, and, as you said, is using what he knows to conceal himself.”

“But I thought he was the crown prince,” Tá Nom said.

“He is.” Gin Ja smiled at him. It was the smile that most reminded him of the days when she was only his mother. It indicated to him that he was being taught a lesson and needed to pay attention. And so he took a steadying breath and considered what she had said.

“I see,” he spoke at last. “Even if he isn’t, he is.”

Gin Ja nodded. “If the true crown prince really is dead, the king would never admit it. The ministers would never suggest it. Doing so would plunge this peninsula into war. No matter who that boy is, he is the crown prince. Whether he is or not no longer matters.”

Tá Nom did not think he agreed. But he said nothing.

“But would he not have the seal?” Săn Lí asked. “The one that marks him as the true prince?”

Gin Ja shook her head. “Only the king knows which of the four seals is the right one. Would he tell the court if it wasn’t?”

At this, Săn Lí frowned. “Would the king accept a crown prince who was not his son?”

“There are those who will do anything to preserve their power.”

Tá Nom bowed his head, brow furrowed. He wasn’t sure he liked this possibility. If it was true, that meant that the next king to sit upon the Láokoth throne could very well be an impostor. If the truth was ever revealed, war would come as surely as it would if all four princes had been killed. Was peace always balanced so delicately?

“You are troubled, my son,” Gin Ja said to him then, “to have let them go.”

“Given who he is,” he answered, “it seems dangerous to let him wander the wild. If he is killed—”

“If he is killed, there will be war, it is true. But there might be war even if he survives.” She smiled at her son. “I think this young prince is smarter than you give him credit for. Obviously, he is going to Osa Gate. With his father’s army and the support of Ko Gŏth Enlin he will be safe from danger and from manipulation.”

“If he makes it to Osa Gate.”

She nodded once.

“Should we not help him, then?”

“No,” she answered sharply. Tá Nom bowed his head. “No, his fate must be outside Koda control. He was little more than a prisoner in your hands who escaped. Even that is a dangerous point of connection. If the king knows we possessed him, he might assume we had snatched him from the Palace itself. Other Houses will see the prince as the key to controlling the king, and even taking control from the king. They would fight us for him. Whether it is the king himself or the other Houses, blood would be shed. No, we cannot help him further without plunging our own hands into the mire of Palace matters. And that is the surest way to see our House destroyed.”

She put her finger to her lips and stared thoughtfully at the cooling tea in her cup.

“But it might be wise to prepare.”

“Prepare?” Tá Nom asked.

“Whatever has happened in the Palace to send its precious occupant alone into the wild, it does not begin or end with that little prince. Something else is happening, very quietly. And if we are not prepared for it, we will probably be destroyed by it.”

“What is happening?” Săn Lí asked, her eyes wide and shining. “For what must we prepare?”

“War, I expect,” Gin Ja answered simply. “The moment the fires lighted the Four Little Palaces, war was inevitable, I think.” She looked at her daughter. “You must begin to gather what you can. Information will be our armor. We must send word — carefully — to Tola in the south. If we must we will abandon this estate and return there.”

“Abandon?” Tá Nom asked. “Will it come to that?”

“I hope it won’t, my son.” She stood. The motion was so sudden that Tá Nom flinched. Then he and Săn Lí quickly followed, Săn Lí turning to help Nola Nan to her feet.

Gin Ja stood before Tá Nom and took his hand in hers. “Your heart is almost as large as your mind, Tá Nom. Because of this you will be a better Housemaster than this old woman.”

“Mother—”

“You are not wrong to want to protect him. You are not wrong to feel that we, our House, ought to risk ourselves to fulfill that duty. If war could be avoided by saving the prince ourselves, I would agree with you. But I fear it cannot.”

When she held his hand in both of hers, the lantern light glinted off the large silver ring she wore on her forefinger. It bore the pale pink gíth that his father had gifted her upon their marriage.

She said, “Take a few men and follow him from afar.”

Tá Nom stared at her, surprised and confused.

“But if you must choose between involving our House and letting him die, you know what you must do.”

Tá Nom bowed.

Letting go of him, Gin Ja said, tucking her hands into her sleeves, “We still have one friend in the capital. Perhaps it is time to call on him.”

The Capital, Lăsoth Estate

Tova Lăsoth received the message at the door. The hooded figure who delivered it bowed and left without a word, disappearing into the early morning throng on the other side of the Lăsoth estate’s walls.

Without pausing, Tova turned from the door and carried the message back into the house. He passed several servants along the way, as well as three members of the Lăsoth council who were making their way to their carriages after their morning meeting with the Housemaster.

He carried the message to the door of the Hall where he tapped his knuckles once against the carved wood. The door was opened immediately by a small maid dressed in white. The moment her eyes fell on Tova, she bowed and stepped back, opening the door for him.

Tova carried the message down the length of the Hall to Bo Han Lăsoth who stood by the window watching the pale winter sky.

Bowing, Tova held out the message to him with both hands. The Housemaster turned and took it from him. Tova stood upright and took two steps back.

The Hall was not otherwise empty. Though the rest of the council had gone, Sen Lan and Ŏvor remained, as did Inohin, who had only recently recovered from a lengthy illness. A maid was using tongs to refill a hand warmer with glowing bits of wood from Bo Han’s stove which hunched like a glossy black beast in the far corner. She brought the warmer to the old man and he took it gladly, thanking her and tucking it inside his cloak.

“You should go back,” Sen Lan said to him. “This morning chill will not do you good.”

He nodded at her with a smile and said, “I will go when I am dismissed.”

Of all Bo Han’s council, Inohin was the most loyal. The rest were good men, but they served the House first and foremost. Which was, they all knew, why Bo Han trusted them. Inohin, however, served Bo Han. He had known Bo Han’s father. He had — though he never spoke of it anymore — bounced both Bo Han and his sister on his knee when they were still too small to form words. Inohin served Bo Han, and Bo Han only allowed it out of respect for the man’s many years of loyal service to Lăsoth.

Sen Lan continued to pester Inohin to return to his residence — which was within the estate walls — and rest. Seeing that the aged adviser was growing weary of resisting her, Ŏvor came then and led his wife away.

Meanwhile, Bo Han read the message. Tova waited in case there was to be a reply. He waited much longer than he expected to. Twice while he read, Bo Han lifted his hand to his lips to conceal a silent cough. The others did not notice, but Tova did.

In time, the length of Bo Han’s silence at last attracted the attention of the others. Ŏvor approached, his wife with him.

“Is it news of him?” Sen Lan asked, because she knew Ŏvor wouldn’t.

Bo Han folded the paper and looked again at the sky. Then, turning to Tova, he dismissed him with a nod. The bodysword left, the maid again opening and closing the door for him, but he remained just outside, should his master need him.

“It is Ŏklo,” Bo Han said quietly. Then he lifted his hand and gestured and the maids and servants silently filed out of the Hall. Once they were gone, he went on, “There is rumor of disquiet in the Ŏklo estate. Von Ol has been removed from his position by Nŏl.”

“The Housemaster’s son?” Sen Lan asked, breathless.

Bo Han nodded.

“Is that not a good thing?”

“If he is like his father, it might be. But this was perhaps the worst time to take such an action.”

He left the window and made his way slowly to the stove near the opposite wall. Inohin watched him closely. He watched the way Bo Han pulled his green velvet cloak tighter around his shoulders and took each slow step with surprising care. Perhaps it was just fatigue; Bo Han had had frequent late night trips to the Palace, and, Inohin knew, elsewhere, though he never told the rest of them where.

Opening the stove, Bo Han tossed the folded paper inside and waited a moment to watch it burn. His face was briefly bathed in reds and oranges. His eyes shone and his pale skin glowed like a polished bone.

Then he closed the stove again.

“The prince passed through there,” he said at last, tucking his arms inside his cloak, his eyes still on the stove.

“Ŏklo lands?” Sen Lan asked. “Then he is still alive.”

“Against all odds,” Inohin murmured.

Bo Han glanced at him. “Quite. It is said one travels with him, a sword I had thought.”

Sen Lan took a step closer to the stove. “But now?”

Bo Han shook his head. He did not answer.

“He is going to Osa Gate, then,” Inohin said. “As you thought.”

“If he does,” Bo Han answered, “there is a very good chance he will not survive.”

Inohin convulsed with a coughing fit while Ŏvor stared in blank shock at the Housemaster. Sen Lan hurried to the old adviser, pouring him a little water.

“I thought Osa Gate would be a place of safety,” Ŏvor said. “Is that not the king’s army?”

Bo Han looked at him, his face cast in shadow. Then he gestured with his eyes to the message in the stove.

“Ŏklo,” Ŏvor said in a quiet voice. Then, “Sivo Hin.”

Bo Han’s face was broken then by the slightest of smiles. He nodded once.

The Lăsoth Housemaster had known years ago, when Sivo Hin Ŏklo had been given his position at Osa Gate that it was a political move. The Ŏklo House was greedy and scheming, Bo Han knew they had exchanged something for the prestige of that position. But he had never been able to learn what exactly.

Ever since he had left the king’s chamber after the fire, Bo Han had been working to learn the truth of what had transpired behind the walls of the Palace. But the Palace House was an unbreakable barrier. Bo Han had long suspected that the servant Éna Lí had manipulated and schemed her way into power in the Palace House. But ever since that night he had understood that she also had some power over the king. How much, Bo Han still did not know.

But as he looked closer, strange connections had begun to come into view. Éna Lí, after all, controlled access to the king. And besides himself, she seemed to only allow one other person into the king’s chambers: Balo Sonen. Not even the prime minister had been granted an audience, and yet this simple, unassuming clerk from a failing House had been permitted to visit the king’s chambers.

Several months ago, Bo Han’s men had followed a messenger from Balo Sonen’s estate. They had watched as he delivered his message into the hands of Sivo Hin Ŏklo himself. There was no known connection between the Ŏklo House and the Sonen House. But Balo Sonen was sending messages to Sivo Hin Ŏklo, and outside the official channels. Secret messages, under cover of darkness.

Bo Han and his council had discussed this at the time. They had endeavored to learn if there was some other connection between Sivo Hin and Balo. But all they could find was that Balo’s son Ban Lo, a clerk to the Minister of Defense, had been present when Sivo Hin had been given his appointment as royal officer at Osa Gate. The connection was not enough to prove that Balo Sonen had had Sivo Hin placed there himself. But Bo Han knew it to be true. He had, at the time, assumed that Balo was using Sivo Hin to leverage favor from the powerful Ŏklo House. But to this day the cunning Balo Sonen had received nothing from anyone in Ŏklo. Indeed, their connection was all but non-existent.

But now the prince was fleeing to Osa Gate. And in Osa Gate waited Sivo Hin. Sivo Hin, who had been placed in Osa Gate by Balo Sonen.

Bo Han took a deep breath and turned from the stove.

This connection had not answered any of Bo Han’s questions, the most important of which were two: What had happened in the Palace? And why?

He had begun to suspect that whatever it was, Éna Lí had been somehow behind it. But how it benefited her to destroy the king’s heir, Bo Han could not see.

But, he remembered, Éna Lí had allowed Balo to meet with the king. Perhaps there was a partnership there that Bo Han could not see.

With another sigh, Bo Han shook his head. “We do not have enough information,” he said, half to himself.

“But we know where the prince is,” Inohin said. “And we know where he’s going.”

Sen Lan asked, “Can we stop him before he reaches Osa Gate? If it’s dangerous for him there, perhaps if we took him into our—”

“Such things are beneath the dignity of our House,” Bo Han answered, distracted.

“I do not want to control him, cousin,” Sen Lan replied quietly. “I would never suggest—”

“But,” Bo Han continued, as if he hadn’t heard her. “If he enters Osa Gate he will doubtless be taken prisoner and then he will be used.”

“How do you know?” Inohin asked.

“Because Balo Sonen was recently permitted to see the king,” Bo Han replied.

They stared at him blankly, all but Ŏvor, who watched the crackling stove, brow creased.

“Balo’s son Ban Lo does nothing without his father’s leave,” Bo Han explained. “Ban Lo placed Sivo Hin in Osa Gate.”

“No,” Inohin said, raising one trembling hand. “No, my lord. Ban Lo is a clerk. The Minister of Defense—”

“Is senile and every day lurches closer to his grave,” Sen Lan said with a nod. “My cousin is right. Someone guides his hand. We have all heard the rumors. That he relies heavily upon Ban Lo, that Ban Lo has made himself his favorite clerk. He even waits on him at his estate.”

Bo Han nodded. “It is reasonable to assume that Ban Lo’s influence — therefore Balo’s — placed Sivo Hin, the most undeserving of candidates, in Osa Gate.”

“For that matter,” Inohin said thoughtfully, “it could be said that the entire idea of the royal officer might have been Balo Sonen’s idea, as it came from the Minister of Defense.”

Bo Han nodded once. “And that means that Balo Sonen has a certain amount of control over the army at Osa Gate.”

“But what of the Iron Hand?” Sen Lan asked. “Ko Gŏth Enlin is incorruptible. There is no man in Láokoth as loyal as he is to the king.”

Bo Han shook his head. “Loyal, yes. But the nature of the royal officer is to confuse loyalty. Ko Gŏth Enlin will obey the king without question. The royal officer represents the king. What if the royal officer — Sivo Hin — convinced Ko Gŏth to take the prince into his care? What if Ko Gŏth is convinced that the king himself attempted to kill his own son? Where would his loyalty fall then?”

“But the king didn’t do that,” Sen Lan said, breathless.

“No, cousin,” Bo Han answered gently. “But the Palace did.”

“How do you know that?” she asked in a stricken whisper.

“I don’t, yet. I need to speak to Kío En.”

“The Prime Minister? Why?”

“Because he was not permitted to see the king.”

Ŏvor turned and looked at the Housemaster. It was clear to Bo Han that the young man had followed him well enough up to that point. But now he was confused.

“The Palace House controls the king,” Bo Han began, patiently. “And the Palace House will not allow Kío En to see him. But they will allow Balo Sonen.”

Inohin blinked several times. “You’re saying the king was not the one Balo Sonen was seeing, but the Palace Housemaster?”

“In a sense,” Bo Han replied.

“And so the Palace Housemaster also refused Kío En’s request for an audience?”

“Yes.”

“So Balo Sonen, presumably, is an ally of the Palace House—”

“Perhaps.”

“—while Kío En is an enemy.”

“That is so, yes.”

“But why does the Palace House want to control the king?” Ŏvor asked. “To what end?”

Bo Han said nothing. He tightened his cloak around his shoulders and stood very still watching the soft glow from the stove slip through the seal of the little black door. They watched him as his eyes narrowed until they were almost closed. Enough time passed that they thought he might not answer at all.

“There is, as we speak,” Bo Han said at last, “a game unfolding and all of Láokoth is the board.”

“A game?” Sen Lan asked. “Played by whom? Against whom?”

Bo Han turned from the stove and looked at her. Then he reached for her hand, his own long, thin fingers were cold when they grasped hers.

“I do not yet know. But the Palace House and Balo Sonen are either important pieces, or they are players.”

“And Lăsoth? What of us?”

Bo Han let go of her hand and put his arm back inside his cloak. “If we are not careful, we will also become just another piece.”

Ŏvor took a step closer. “And should we instead strive to be a player in this game?”

Bo Han shook his head. “Lăsoth does not play these games. Never have we done so. But if we aren’t careful, we will be trapped on the board, forced to serve one side or the other.”

“Who is the other side?” Sen Lan asked.

“I do not yet know.”

Ŏvor followed Bo Han as he walked to the chair where Inohin sat.

Bo Han went on, “Kío En is the brother-in-law of the Grand Steward. It is said that she has been imprisoned in her residence ever since the fire. Judging from Kío En’s behavior since he visited her, I am confident that he and the Grand Steward hold the final piece of this terrible game.”

“What piece?” Inohin asked, moving to stand.

Bo Han gave the old adviser his arm to help him out of his chair. He said, “‘Why?’ Kío En and the Grand Steward are the only ones who can answer that question.”

“‘Why?’” Sen Lan repeated, clasping her hands before her.

“Yes, cousin. Why were the Four Little Palaces attacked?”

After several long minutes of silence during which Bo Han stared at the mosaic designs along the far wall and they all stared at him, he finally spoke.

Turning to Sen Lan, he said, “It is time to send for your brother.”

“Sen Lí?” she asked. “But he is operating the border estate. Can he be spared?”

“This is more important. Write to him, carefully, the way you did when you were children.”

“In our code, you mean?”

He did not answer.

Sen Lan dropped her eyes, then said, with a note of childish embarrassment, “I didn’t know you knew about that.”

“Tell him to find the prince and watch him from afar. Never let him leave his sight.”

“That’s all?” she asked, uneasy.

Bo Han offered her a reassuring smile. “Any more and we risk entering the game.”

“And what of the Grand Steward?” Inohin asked. “And Kío En? How can we learn what they know without risk to ourselves?”

“Knowledge will be more valuable than ignorance, my old friend,” Bo Han answered. “Only the blind cannot defend themselves. If we don’t know the object of the game, we won’t be able to escape its players.”

“You will speak to Kío En?”

“I will,” Bo Han answered. “When the time is right.”

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Tá Nom Koda did not move from his position on the edge of the creek for several hours. The tent they made for him was in anticipation of the coming nightfall, but he would not sleep. He would wait to hear from his mother and he would not move and he would not act until then. Showing the Tolo Dol his resolve was as important as showing them his dominion over these lands.

As afternoon became evening, his men made a fire and made coffee in the northern style, thick and sweet. It had been years since he’d been home to the main Koda estate on the border of Gŏhíth and had there the bitter coffee that was more common in the south. Tá Nom’s brother Tola managed the southern estate, and he did so well. So Tá Nom and his mother had little cause to travel there. Though Sona Gen was more than enough to occupy all of their time and energy.

While he waited, sipping his hot coffee, he assessed what he knew to be true.

The Ŏklo House, greedy and shameless, had absorbed countless small Houses here in the Osa Len mountains. All, Tá Nom knew, in an effort to press against the power of Koda. For years they had sent their spies into every inch of land and every estate that was controlled by Koda or friends of Koda. Tá Nom had begun to learn their patterns and their methods well enough to avoid them.

And just as Ŏklo — and their allies — sent spies into Koda, so, too, did Koda send spies of their own. Tá Nom did not manage the brunt of his House’s spies. This task fell to his capable sister, Săn Lí1, who maintained communications with the women they had positioned throughout Ŏklo estates, and those of their allies. Tá Nom’s mother intended for him to inherit the position of Housemaster, while his sister would serve him in her capacity as master of their female spies. Tá Nom did not know who or where these spies were. But the information they were able to provide was invaluable.

And while it was true that male spies were sometimes used by the Koda House — especially in martial matters — these would have been managed by Tá Nom himself. Therefore when he looked upon the two young men in the Tolo Dol camp, he knew better than anyone that they were not Koda spies.

Some days ago he had been present when Săn Lí had reported to their mother that Nŏl Ŏklo — from the western seat of the Ŏklo House — had, on his journey east to attend his cousin’s wedding, taken into his company two travelers who were said to be from Hin Dan. These travelers had been acquired a little east of Rensoth. The report had stated that one was ill. They had also received news yesterday morning that matters inside Von Ol Ŏklo’s estate were changing dramatically. The report had said that Von Ol had been placed under arrest and that Nŏl now controlled the estate. But they had yet to confirm this.

The two young men in the Tolo Dol camp were doubtless the two travelers that had been accompanying Nŏl Ŏklo. Tá Nom suspected that when the situation inside the Ŏklo estate had become dangerous, Nŏl had sent them away with food and clothes. This would certainly be in keeping with what they knew of Nŏl Ŏklo. Tá Nom had deduced this as soon as he had seen the two men with his own eyes. The finery they wore was certainly from the Ŏklo estate. They both looked pale, but one certainly seemed weaker than the other.

It was possible that a member of the Tolo Dol House had indeed been killed in the forest, it was even possible that one of these two young men had killed him. But Tá Nom suspected that that might not be why the Tolo Dol Housemaster wanted them dead. If these two young men had indeed fled the Ŏklo estate, they must carry with them some secret that Von Ol Ŏklo — or his brother-in-law Sivo Hin — did not want to escape Ŏklo walls.

At least, that’s what Tá Nom had thought at first. He had already intended to find a way to have the two placed into his care. If what they knew was enough to have them killed, then Koda needed to know what it was.

However, when he sat before them and spoke to them he began to doubt his initial assumptions.

Neither had seemed accustomed to the rough ways of the road. Eating soup without a spoon had stumped them at first, indicating to Tá Nom that they came from more comfortable lives than they pretended. Their claim to be brothers was also false, despite their physical resemblance; this lie did not come naturally. They were comfortable in each other’s company and so were certainly acquainted, but not related. The quiet one had seemed subservient to the other, who bore himself with dignity and nobility implying a far different identity than the one he claimed.

The entirety of their story about traveling to Ŭthol Na to find their uncle was a fiction. This was as plain as day. Not only were they lying, but they seemed to have very little experience at it. They were not spies, and he was surprised they had managed to survive as long as they had on the road. It was likely only the kindness and charity of Nŏl Ŏklo that had preserved them from harm.

That, of course, presented a new question. Why had Nŏl Ŏklo taken in these two strangers, two men of unknown origin who were lying about their identity?

It was possible, of course, that they had not lied to Nŏl Ŏklo. It was possible that Nŏl knew who they were when he had sent them from the estate.

They had implied they were being hunted, but by whom?

They were in a hurry, the young man had said. Ostensibly, in a hurry to beat the winter across the Ŭthol Na border. That would have been believable were it not for the rest.

In that moment, Tá Nom considered an alternate possibility. Perhaps Nŏl Ŏklo had not driven them from the Ŏklo estate. It was just as likely that the two had fled, and had been fleeing ever since. Whether Nŏl controlled the estate or Von Ol, they might have been trying to keep these two there. But why?

A third possibility began to present itself to Tá Nom before he had even crossed the little bridge to his side of the creek. It was too terrifying to consider and yet explained a great deal. It would explain their fine manners and their lack of experience on the road. It explained why Nŏl had tried to help and protect them, but disguised it with lies. It explained why the Ŏklo estate would want to keep them. It explained why these two men were in a hurry to go north— not north to Ŭthol Na, but north to Osa Gate.

It was possible that they were from the Palace. But if these two young men were from the Palace, and if their identity was as singular as Tá Nom suspected, that could only mean one thing, which was, of course, impossible.

Some hours after sundown, the messenger returned. The men took his horse and he staggered to Tá Nom with a sealed message from the Koda Housemaster. In the camp, the Tolo Dol men observed this with close attention.

Tá Nom broke the seal and read his mother’s message. Were it not for the heavy blanket of darkness, even the Tolo Dol would have been able to see the way his face blanched. A fear crept over him unlike any he had known in his life. He felt that he had stepped into a nest of serpents and one wrong move would cost him his life. And, in all likelihood, his entire House.

Careful to keep his face steady, he slipped the message into the inner pocket of his golt and stood. He motioned to his men to take down their tents and prepare themselves to move.

Crossing the little bridge, Tá Nom again approached the Tolo Dol commander, who had emerged from his camp, a man with a torch walking behind him.

“My Housemaster offers her condolences on the loss of your Housemember,” Tá Nom said with a bow. “However she is adamant. Crimes committed on lands that are in the care of Koda must be punished by Koda. She has ordered me to take the prisoners. They will be tried and punished, I assure you. She has asked that you write an account of what has occurred which she will take into consideration when she makes her decision.”

The Tolo Dol commander was not pleased. Tá Nom knew it would be difficult to convince him that these two prisoners were otherwise of no importance to Koda. But his mother had ordered him to take them by any means necessary. Any means. He knew her reasoning. But he also knew that bloodshed in the Osa Len mountains could be used against his House, even if there had been some justification, such as Tolo Dol making their encampment on Koda land.

Tá Nom knew also that Tolo Dol had no love for Ŏklo. He doubted that the commander would want to spill blood for nothing more than his obedience to the House that had so nearly destroyed his own. If Tá Nom could convince him that the prisoners would be punished, there was a chance it would be enough.

“My mother,” Tá Nom added, his tone quieter, as if relaying information he did not want his own men to hear, “she does not want to be seen to be lenient when it comes to crimes committed near the mines, you understand.”

The Tolo Dol commander looked at him sharply.

“She would normally permit a House to punish crimes committed against itself, as is normal,” Tá Nom went on. “But the king has put these lands in our hands. And he would be displeased if he saw that we could not even maintain order. She will make an example of these two. You’ll see. All over these mountains they will hear of it.”

At this, the Tolo Dol commander seemed to relax. Though still with a look of displeasure, he excused himself to write the report Tá Nom had requested. Some minutes later he returned with a folded, sealed paper— and the two prisoners.

Handing the paper to Tá Nom, he said, “See to it that justice is done.”

Tá Nom Koda bowed. “You have my word.”

Three of his men came across the bridge to take the two bound men and lead them away. The Tolo Dol commander watched, his eyes dark. He knew he had been defeated by Koda. He did not have the men nor the justification to stand against them. He had gained nothing in this exchange except permission to live. Watching him as he made his way back inside his encampment, Tá Nom found himself wondering what he would have done in his position.

The Tolo Dol commander stopped once and turned back, his brow furrowed. Maybe he also had his doubts about the prisoners’ story. But if he really believed they were Koda spies, he seemed to have handed them over rather easily. Surely he would have tried to retain them if only to prevent them from reporting what they knew to the Koda House.

Perhaps, Tá Nom thought with a smile, that was his intention.

They traveled slowly, allowing the sun to rise to their right as they made their way down the mountain road. Soon they would reach the turn that would lead to the road to the Koda estate. They had not been traveling an hour when dawn broke over the mountain tops and Tá Nom called the company to a halt.

The two prisoners had been placed in the back of a covered cart in which they had most of their supplies and food. Both were still bound. Men rode all around the cart watching it closely. As he dismounted, Tá Nom sent them away. Bringing water with him, he pushed aside the waxed linen that covered the back of the cart.

They both sat surrounded by bags of grain and dried meat, and several logs of rolled cloth, their hands bound before them, their tired faces pale and gray. The one who had spoken earlier, the one who was a shade larger, immediately lifted his chin upon seeing Tá Nom. He squinted into the bright morning light while the other moved behind him, as if hiding.

“We will rest for a moment,” Tá Nom announced. “My men will bring you food.” He handed them water. They each took a sip — the bigger one first — not taking their eyes off him, then handed the water back.

“Do you really believe you can make it to Ŭthol Na before the winter?” Tá Nom asked with a light tone. He leaned against the cart.

“We have to try,” said the one who had spoken before. When he turned his head to offer the other a reassuring smile, Tá Nom saw a small cut on his neck from the executioner’s sword. He took out his own handkerchief and handed it to him. The young man flinched, but then bowed and took it.

In time his men came with some heated broth. As the smaller one in back attempted to slide forward to take the bowl they were handing to him, he lost his balance and tipped over, his bound hands offering him little help. One of Tá Nom’s men reached forward to help him.

“Do not touch him!” snapped the other. Even Tá Nom started in surprise. They watched as the bigger one used his own bound hands to lift the other. Then they both accepted the bowls of broth.

As they sipped, Tá Nom studied them. If what his mother had written in her note was true, one of these two young men was the crown prince of Láokoth. He suspected it was the bigger one, as he had the bearing and demeanor Tá Nom would expect from royalty. The other, then, was probably a young servant from his household that the prince was eager to protect.

The second half of the Koda Housemaster’s note had confused him at first. But after they had ridden for less than a mile, he understood.

The note had read, “Under no circumstances will you bring them to this estate.”

Tá Nom had thought at first that possession of the Sona heir would be invaluable. They would triumphantly return him to the Palace and use the prestige of this act to leverage untold favor from the king.

But in reality, they would not be thanked. The king would assume that it had been Koda who had taken the young prince from the Palace walls. He would assume that Koda had sent the mercenaries that his mother had written about to set fire to the Four Little Palaces. Even if they returned the prince without a scratch, the Koda House would be held responsible and would be destroyed. Possessing the prince would be considered an admission of guilt. The longer they had him in their company, the longer the entire Koda House was in danger.

When the two had finished their broth, Tá Nom took out his dagger. The bigger one immediately slid back, pushing the smaller one behind him. His eyes were wide, his bound hands out in a defensive posture.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” Tá Nom said. And, slowly, he slid the blade between the young man’s hands, cutting the ropes. This he repeated with the other.

“Now,” he said, putting his knife away. “We’ll set off again soon. I’m sure I don’t need to worry that you’ll run off.”

Then he turned and walked around the cart. Gesturing to his men, he led all of them away. Loudly he said, “Prepare the men to depart.”

Then he crossed his arms and waited.

The two young man left so soundlessly that at first Tá Nom thought they had not moved. But when he went back to the cart, they were gone; only the cut ropes remained. With a heavy sigh of relief, he again draped the cloth over the back of the cart.

One of his men came to him while he took his mother’s note from his pocket.

“We’re letting them go?” he asked, confused.

Tá Nom used a bit of burning wood from his men’s fire to ignite the corner of his mother’s message. Holding it with the tips of his thumb and forefinger, he said nothing while they watched it burn.

As the fluttering remains of the paper floated like an ember-colored butterfly in a chill breeze, he said at last,“Letting who go?”

The man looked confused for a moment, then his face changed.

“Yes, my lord,” he said with a bow.

As he climbed onto his horse, Tá Nom saw the trees to his left rustle a little. Those two were probably hiding until the company left. He felt a twinge of guilt. There was a thread of coldness in abandoning the prince to the road. Given his inexperience, there was a good chance he would never make it back to his father’s Palace. With Koda’s protection, of course, he could do so easily. But that would spell Koda’s destruction. Tá Nom knew he was choosing his own House over the fate of the young prince.

But then he turned his horse and murmured, “His path is his own.”

By nightfall, Tá Nom’s company had reached the Koda estate. Despite the dark, the front gate was well lighted; his mother, naturally, had been anticipating his arrival for some time. She would want a report, and she would not want to wait.

He saw her when he dismounted.

Gin Ja Koda was as an imposing figure as her husband had been, even in the dark. Like the swords that guarded the gate, she wore blue, as did the rest of their family. Her golt of spun silk was embroidered with white and silver lines meant to indicate the flowing streams of rivers. Her long hair — gray at the temples — was bound in an elaborate knot and her head crowned with a fur hat capped with a tiny golden acorn.

The Koda Housemaster was aged, nearly seventy, but she was sharp and alert and carried herself with the wisdom and dignity of her years. Her narrow eyes shone as she watched her son approach. Her tall cheekbones caught the lantern light even as her thin lips parted in a calm smile.

“My son,” she said, reaching for him as he bowed to her.

“Mother,” he replied, taking her hand and squeezing it. Gin Ja Koda’s hands were warm and strong, like his father’s, but smooth. She let go of her son and slid her hand back inside the fur-lined cuff of her golt.

Behind her stood Săn Lí dressed in blue covered in a translucent layer of thin gold silk. She wore a matching veil around her small face and cast large, sparkling eyes upon her brother as she offered him a small bow. Tá Nom’s sister was beautiful but their mother had refused several marriage arrangements. He suspected this was because she was too valuable to her in her current position. Săn Lí’s small, quiet face was gentle and sweet, but he knew that a sharp mind was hidden behind her beauty. A mind Gin Ja Koda was not willing to share with any of the Houses who had come to ask for her hand. She would marry a Koda, Gin Ja had said, or no one at all.

Standing next to Săn Lí was Nola Nan, Tá Nom’s wife. A small woman with a sharp southern face and bright, brown eyes, she had been the daughter of his father’s closest friend. It was said that she had his nose, and also his stubbornness. Tá Nom had not been able to spend time enough with her to know her as well as he would have liked. But she was a constant companion to his sister, and for that he was grateful. She also carried their third child. The first two had not survived.

She was relieved to see her husband intact and went to him, one arm outstretched, the other holding her swollen stomach.

“You should not have come out in this cold,” he said, putting one arm around her while he tightened her cloak with the other.

“Koda women are not so weak as to be brought down by a little winter breeze,” his mother replied, her eyes shining.

Tá Nom bowed his head.

“Come,” Gin Ja said. “Tell me all that has happened.”

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Watching the sword glint in the rising sun, So Ga felt a wave of shock so sharp that he thought he might faint. He wrenched against his bonds knowing there was nothing he could do to stop the blade. Min La was terribly still, as if the fight had left him, or worse, So Ga thought suddenly, as if he was giving himself to death.

He knew that he cried out. He felt his throat burn and so he knew he must have used it. The world seemed to have slowed and for several minutes it was as if the blade was frozen in the air, the light frozen where it turned in a white needle across its sharpened edge, the air frozen where it cut through the echo of dawn still pulsing in waves of orange and bright blue cold across the bitter Osa Len foothills. So Ga felt the ropes dig into his wrists, he felt his shoulders strain until spasms of pain flickered through his arms and fingers.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of blue. Before he could stop himself, he turned towards it.

A figure slipped between the trees, slipped, too, in and out of So Ga’s sight. The blue of his trailing golt was one with the blue of the shadows. The brilliant amber dawn framed his head in a halo. Pale white hair fell in soft waves around a pale white face, so pale that even the features were not discernible.

So Ga watched as the figure slipped soundlessly closer and closer. He was waiting, So Ga knew. Waiting for the sword to fall. Waiting to take Min La.

So Ga looked away. The world had grown quiet, he realized suddenly. And in that moment the sound returned so abruptly that he felt as if his ears had been struck. The needle light from the sword’s edge struck So Ga in the eye. He gasped and turned, scanning the forest for the figure in blue.

But the sword.

He looked back. The executioner took a breath and prepared to bring the blade down. So Ga felt his legs turn to jelly.

“My lord Tolo Dol,” called a voice from the other side of the creek.

The voice came so suddenly and the words crashed through the silence with such violence that So Ga almost cried out.

The commander lifted his hand, signaling the executioner to stop. Turning to look at the source of the voice, he smiled and said, “What a busy morning this is. First I find trespassers on my land, then one of my men is murdered, and now here, at last, I am visited by none other than the Koda princeling himself.”

The Tolo Dol men standing around them parted and So Ga could look out and see for himself as the Koda heir — accompanied by some dozen of his men — dismounted his horse.

So Ga had heard Tá Nom1 Koda described. Much had been said of him and his House in his father’s court, especially recently. But seeing him now, he realized that the accounts he had read did not quite do him justice.

Tá Nom’s father had been a martial man, a general in good standing with the court who spent his life defending the border in Gŏhíth. It was said that both of his sons had inherited his imposing physique. Tá Nom, a man of about thirty-five, was tall, with broad shoulders. His men standing around him were lifelong soldiers, strong, healthy, imposing, and yet Tá Nom towered over them. He wore a blue golt — in honor of his father — and the pale green of his House. Reports had related that in deference to the tolibin king, the Koda House had adopted the tolibin ways. Tá Nom’s hair was long, and tied back around his ears with a simple leather cord. His long face was serious and his large eyes calm but attentive. On his hip he wore a sword in a simple black sheath. From the reports So Ga knew that it was his father’s.

He strode to the creek’s edge, several of his men behind him. Then, standing with his hand on the pommel of his father’s sword, he lifted his head and offered the Tolo Dol commander an unreadable smile.

“My lord Tolo Dol,” he said, “I am sure that you aren’t about to execute a man on lands that are under the control of my House.”

The Tolo Dol commander turned. “My lord Koda, you seem to be mistaken. The boundary of your land is that creek before your feet.”

“Ah,” said Tá Nom, “so that is the source of your error.” Turning, he gestured to one of his men, saying something So Ga could not hear.

The man hurried to Tá Nom’s horse where he retrieved a rolled parchment from the saddle bag. This he carried into the encampment after hopping across the creek. With a bow, he handed the roll — which turned out to be a map painted on leather — to the Tolo Dol commander. As he did so, he spent a moment studying So Ga and Min La.

“As you can see,” Tá Nom said from across the creek, “the edge of Koda territory is, in fact, marked by that tree line just behind you.”

The commander set his jaw as he studied the map. When he finished he rolled it up and So Ga saw the light glint off the thick black ink of his royal father’s seal in the map’s corner. His eyes flashing, the commander flung the map back at the Koda man who had delivered it.

He bowed and returned to his master across the creek.

“My lord,” Tá Nom went on. “As much as I appreciate and respect your position as the head of your House, these two prisoners are, nevertheless, on Koda territory. And so you have no right to execute them.”

“This one has confessed to killing my man,” the commander said, stabbing his finger at Min La, who still had not moved, though So Ga saw his back move with heavy breaths.

“And you have my sympathies, but even so, it has occurred on Koda land.”

So Ga understood at once what was occurring. Tá Nom Koda had no interest in saving Min La, not exactly. Like the Tolo Dol commander, Tá Nom believed the two of them to be spies of some kind. So Ga guessed that the constant, delicate power struggle in this part of the Osa Len mountains had made all of the Houses here paranoid. And all of them were eager for an advantage over the others, but none so much as Koda who sought always to outmaneuver Ŏklo. And everyone knew that Tolo Dol served Ŏklo.

Tá Nom Koda had likely heard that spies had been captured by Tolo Dol. No doubt Koda did have spies throughout these mountains. And so he had come himself to see if the reports were true and if anything could be done. He had probably been here for hours, but had only chosen to show himself when he realized that the Tolo Dol commander was about to execute his prisoners. Perhaps it was mere chance that he was able to use as an excuse that the Tolo Dol encampment was on Koda land. Perhaps not.

So Ga had once read of a Housemaster from the early days before Láokoth had been unified. He had been locked in a border dispute with three Houses for almost ten years. They had all finally reached a truce at last, each compelled by signed agreement to be satisfied with the land they possessed. Two honored this agreement, but the third was known for their devious plotting.

The Housemaster had watched from afar as this enemy had established a camp very near the border of his lands. Soon after, the enemy moved his camp even closer, crossing the boundary. The Housemaster had ordered his men to do nothing. He pretended to be oblivious to the treacherous House’s encroachment. After all, they could claim that they had merely accidentally crossed the border. And something as small as that was not enough to break their agreement. This had continued for several weeks until the day came when an altercation between scouts resulted in the death of one of the Housemaster’s captains. He condemned the entirety of the offending House for violating the terms of their agreed-upon borders. Thus he was able to annihilate his enemy without betraying the agreement he had signed. He absorbed his enemy’s lands and quickly became one of the most powerful Houses on the continent. So Ga remembered suddenly that that House had been Lăsoth.

So Ga wondered if Tá Nom Koda had allowed Tolo Dol to keep their encampment within Koda territory just in case he ever needed to use that violation to his advantage. So Ga remembered then that Tá Nom was the son of Gin Ja Koda, the current Housemaster after the death of her husband. Many said that Gin Ja was one of the shrewdest Housemasters on the peninsula.

The Tolo Dol commander walked to his edge of the creek. “And so,” he said with a thin smile. “You would rather take them and execute them yourself?”

“If indeed a murder has occurred on our land, is it not my duty to see to it that punishment is carried out? Just as it would be your duty to do so when a crime is committed on your land. We are, each of us, men bound by duty.”

“But it was my Housemember who was killed.”

“All the same.” Tá Nom Koda smiled and gave a slight bow.

“Then what would you propose, my lord Koda?”

Tá Nom didn’t answer for a moment. He glanced up at the mountain behind him, and then his gaze passed over So Ga and Min La. And then he sighed.

“Well, to begin with, perhaps you should let me speak to your prisoners. Given that we are, as I have explained to you, on Koda land.”

The Tolo Dol commander offered a stiff bow and then motioned to the bridge that crossed the creek. Tá Nom thanked him and went to it. Only one of his men went with him.

The other Tolo Dol swords parted for him as he entered the encampment. So Ga perceived a certain fear colored by respect. Even the commander seemed to have a favorable opinion of the Koda heir, despite the fact that his situation made him his enemy.

The commander led Tá Nom to where So Ga was bound and Min La knelt hunched in the mud. He gestured as if to indicate that Tá Nom was free to speak with him.

“My lord,” the Koda heir said with a note of disapproval. “This won’t do at all. They have no coats and the morning is bitterly cold. Let us take them into one of your tents and then I will speak to them while your men prepare them some warm food. How does that sound?”

It was several seconds before the Tolo Dol commander assented. And when he did, it was with flashing eyes. The Koda heir was making a point of displaying his superior power as clearly, but as delicately, as he could. As much as So Ga was relieved to be going back inside the tent and away from the wind, he knew that Tá Nom Koda was not any more their ally than the Tolo Dol commander.

Inside the tent they were bound again, but this time Tá Nom directed the men to tie their hands in front of them.

“So they can eat,” he said.

The bonds were less tight but So Ga’s wrists still smarted and stung. He and Min La were placed side by side, so he could see the way Min La trembled still and sheen of sweat on the paper white skin on his face. Glancing at So Ga, he smiled and gave him a nod. The Tolo Dol commander stood near the opening of the tent, close enough to hear their conversation. This did not seem to worry the Koda heir.

Tá Nom’s man brought him a wooden box from the other side of the tent and he sat facing them both. Taking off his gloves, he draped them over his knee and then clasped his hands together, looking at them. His long face was warm, but otherwise belied no thought or emotion. So Ga was struck by how much more at ease he felt in the Koda heir’s company, and he worried that this sense of comfort would get them in trouble.

“You admit to killing the man?” Tá Nom Koda said to Min La. So Ga felt another surge of panic and stared at him.

Min La nodded. “In an effort to protect myself and my brother.”

“I see.” He said nothing for a time. Then, “And you are?”

“My brother and I are Houseless,” Min La said quickly, staring at the ground. So Ga thought his manner strange. His lie was delivered far less convincingly than when he’d said the same thing to the Tolo Dol swords.

“We,” he went on. “We… we are…” he searched for the words. Then he said quickly: “traveling to see our uncle.”

“Are you, now? Where is your uncle?”

Min La licked his lips. “He is— you see, he is—”

“In Ŭthol Na,” So Ga offered. He had begun to fear that the shock of earlier had had too great an effect on Min La and he could no longer remember their story. The Koda heir would be able to tell they were lying in an instant.

“Yes, that’s right!” Min La agreed, eyes wide. “Ŭthol Na.”

“Is it your paternal uncle or your maternal uncle?”

“Patern— no, I mean it is my maternal uncle. Our maternal uncle.” He laughed nervously. “Of course.”

Tá Nom smiled and nodded. “Of course.”

A Tolo Dol sword came then carrying two bowls of brothy soup. He gave one to each of them, but no spoon. So Ga followed Min La’s example and sipped the broth. He was surprised how comforting it felt to drink something hot. Comfort in this moment almost felt wrong.

The Tolo Dol sword went to his commander, who took him by the arm and led him outside to give him some order he didn’t want Tá Nom to overhear.

Min La immediately put the bowl aside and leaned forward.

“My lord Koda,” he said in a whisper, speaking quickly. “I know who you are and why you are here. My companion and I are not spies, you know this as well as I. We cannot tell you who we are nor where we are going but we cannot remain in this camp.”

Tá Nom Koda seemed a little taken aback by the sudden change in Min La’s demeanor. He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. “Tell me, my young friend, is your identity of any importance to me?”

“Not directly.” Min La glanced at the doorway again, then he leaned a little closer. “My compan— my brother and I have been traveling for several days. We are in a hurry and we are not safe on the road. Many hunt us. I killed that man to protect myself.”

“And your identity?” Tá Nom offered with a smile.

“Our identity is not important.”

“Is it not?”

“These men want to kill us for murdering their Housemember. But we were only acting in self defense. If it is in your power to let us go, we beg of you—”

“Perhaps I can contact this uncle of yours—”

“No!” Min La put his bound hands against his mouth. “No, that isn’t necessary. We shouldn’t trouble our… uncle.”

“Perhaps not. But should the death of the Tolo Dol Housemember go unanswered?”

Min La bowed and spoke, “My lord, if you believe punishment is just, I will accept it.” He lifted his head and looked sharply into the Koda heir’s eyes. “But if you understand my situation, perhaps you will have a different opinion.”

“Your situation?” Tá Nom leaned back and put his hands on his knees. He remained silent for some time, looking at both of them thoughtfully.

“But how could you understand,” Min La went on, half to himself, “my brother and I are hungry and we are exhausted. We’ve been running from the west—” He stopped and once again looked at Tá Nom, and then quickly looked away. “For several days we have been running.”

“From the west?” Tá Nom asked.

Min La kept his head down and said nothing. At that moment the Tolo Dol commander reappeared in the tent’s doorway, his arms crossed over his chest.

Tá Nom studied Min La’s face as he put his gloves on. Standing, he said, “You should eat your soup while it’s hot. I’ll see to it that they continue to feed you and even bring you a small brazier.”

Min La bowed in thanks as Tá Nom left the tent.

The Tolo Dol commander waited for Tá Nom to leave and then he offered his prisoners a passing glance, and followed the Koda heir.

So Ga turned to Min La. “What are you doing?” he said in a whisper. “You’ve all but told him the truth. A child could see through your lies.”

Min La leaned against the tent post behind him and sighed. He used his bound hands to rub his face; his fingers still trembled.

“Yes,” he whispered, nodding. “Tá Nom Koda is smart. What I’ve told him will be enough. He’ll figure out the rest himself.”

“Why would you want to tell him who I am?”

“The Koda House is ambitious and they are shrewd. They’ll understand the value of…” he glanced at So Ga, “of possessing you. Once he confirms the truth, he’ll try to see us transferred to his custody.”

“Confirms?”

“The Koda House is one of the most powerful Houses in Sona Gen. I assure you, they absolutely have someone in the capital. They’ve probably already heard rumors of an attack on the Palace. We provide the pieces and Koda puts it all together, thinking they’ve figured it out themselves.”

“If you wanted Koda to know the truth, why not just tell him directly?”

Min La shook his head. “He would have assumed it to be a lie. But if it seemed like we were hiding the truth and that he had seen through our lies, he would be more inclined to believe it.”

So Ga stared, mouth open. The plan was delicate, risky, and brilliant. But there was one thing it seemed Min La had not considered.

“Won’t we just be exchanging Tolo Dol ropes for Koda ropes?” So Ga lifted his bounds hands to show him.

“It’s alright,” Min La said with a smile. “One problem at a time. If we stay with Tolo Dol we’ll both die. The first problem is escaping execution.”

“And the second problem?”

“We’ll know it when we get to it.”

Standing with the Tolo Dol commander on the western side of the creek, Tá Nom Koda clasped his hands behind his back.

“My Housemaster has stated that she must be consulted regarding any matter as serious as murder on the lands around the mines. I’m sure you understand.”

The Tolo Dol commander said nothing.

“She is at the estate a half-day’s ride from here. I will send her a message and we will hear back by the evening.” He smiled and made his way across the little bridge to his side of the creek. “When this matter is sorted,” he went on. “I would advise you to find a more suitable location for your camp. That way in the future we can avoid these kinds of misunderstandings.”

One of Tá Nom’s men brought him a stool and he sat. They began to erect a small tent behind him while he used a short glass pen and a small pot of ink to write a message on a square of paper. This he folded and stamped with a seal he retrieved from a chain around his neck. Handing it to the man standing nearest him, he uttered an order that the Tolo Dol commander could not quite hear.

Within seconds the man was astride his horse. When Tá Nom motioned to him, he took off at a hard gallop.

“There,” Tá Nom said, taking an apple from his cloak pocket and leaning forward to rinse it in the little creek. “It shouldn’t be long now.”

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There was little rest to be had with his hands bound behind his back, but by dawn, Min La’s knee did not hurt as much. He had not slept at all and the cold had made his entire body stiff.

The tent in which they were bound had been enough to protect them from the cold wind, but the chill had crept like a tide across the straw mats on which they sat; it clamped around their fingers, their toes, then their arms and legs. Min La had been shivering for an hour, though he knew that was mostly due to fatigue and fear.

So Ga had dozed some while ago. His head propped against the pole to which he was bound, he had finally been taken by exhaustion. Min La tried to judge the pallor of his pale face, but he didn’t think it was any more white than yesterday. Though with the chill in this tent and their position on the ground, that was not likely to last.

As soon as they had been taken by the three men in yellow, Min La had come to understand that they were from a House that served Ŏklo. He wasn’t sure if this was better or worse than if they had been Koda. He knew nothing of Tolo Dol, but even still he recognized the complexity of their situation.

Tolo Dol, as he had quickly deduced, served Ŏklo. Or, to be more precise, they searched constantly for a way to get out from under their slavery to Ŏklo. This land abutted the part of the Osa Len Mountains where the royal silver mines were guarded by the vigilance of the Koda House. Where exactly the boundary line was, Min La did not know. He wondered if it might be the creek just outside the encampment.

How that would help them, he had no idea. They had successfully managed to conceal their identity from the scouts. However, this had created a new set of problems. Despite Min La’s repeated insistence that they were merely two Houseless brothers, the Tolo Dol scouts had decided immediately that they must be Koda spies. Nothing could dissuade them from this notion. And as they had been found on the other side of the boundary — within Tolo Dol and Ŏklo lands — this could give them a certain degree of authority when it came to deciding what to do with them.

Min La’s greatest concern was that they would be handed over to Ŏklo. This would place them once again at the mercy of Sivo Hin, and within his grasp. Nŏl could only protect them to a point, especially if Sivo Hin got to them first.

His mind worked as quickly as it could. What would his brother-in-law do in this situation? He would talk, of course. Where Să Han would no doubt fight — and overcome — the swords outside this tent, his brother-in-law would certainly find a way to talk himself into freedom. He had done it countless times before. Min La had been able to sneak after him once or twice and watch these intricate negotiations. But he didn’t trust himself to be able to do what his brother-in-law had done so effortlessly.

But he couldn’t fight. Even if he had a sword, there were too many of them. Talking was all he had.

So Ga stirred sharply, waking with a start. He glanced around in panicked confusion, his eyes widening. And then his gaze settled on Min La and he seemed to relax.

“Are you alright?” Min La asked in a whisper.

He nodded. “A little cold. But otherwise, I’m fine.” His bound hands moved and flexed. “I can barely feel my fingers.”

“When they come,” Min La said. “Say nothing. No matter what they say or ask, no matter what I say or do, say nothing.”

So Ga nodded. “Do you have a plan?”

Min La tried to stretch his shoulders. He said, “I might.”

Less than an hour passed before they came. Three of them again; two from last night, but the third was different, older. Min La guessed that he was the commander of this little company. He had come to speak to his captured spies, no doubt.

Like the others, he wore a yellow cloak, but his seemed older and finer and was trimmed in black. His armor was brown leather and his golt a faded gray. Taller and older than the others, he wore his hair long and had also a thin brown beard, graying at his chin. He said nothing when he stepped into the tent. Eyes moving from Min La to So Ga, he smiled. It was almost a gentle smile, but Min La detected something beneath it that quickened his heart.

“Well,” the man said at last, his voice thin and delicate. “That’s quite enough for one night.” And he motioned to his subordinates.

Bowing, they said, “Yes, my lord,” and immediately stepped forward to untie their bonds. Min La stretched his shoulders while So Ga rubbed his wrists. He was not stupid enough to think they were being released, but the way the man smiled at them made it seem like they were. In that moment it occurred to Min La that that was his intent. He was trying to trick them, put them at their ease and then shock them, probably with violence. Not an uncommon tactic when wearing down stubborn prisoners.

His smile did not change when he again motioned to his men. They pulled Min La and So Ga to their feet and then dragged them roughly out of the tent and into the brilliant white daylight. Min La squinted, covering his eyes. He was not prepared when the hand on his arm gave him a violent shove, and so he tripped, sprawling on his hands and knees in the freezing mud. So Ga collided with him. Their eyes met, and Min La gave him a reassuring nod.

Two posts had been pounded into the earth, for horses, Min La guessed. The men dragged them over and tied each of them to one of the posts. The air was cold, a wind whistled through the encampment. Min La glanced over as they bound So Ga’s hands behind him, his boots up to the ankle in icy cold mud. The hands that tied Min La were rough and the bonds too tight. He felt the rope dig into his wrists.

The commander came again and stood before them. “Now that you have had a good night’s sleep, perhaps you are ready to confess your crimes.”

“We are not criminals, sir,” Min La said. “Or villains of any kind.”

“Such pretty talk. What then? Heroes?”

“My brother and I are travelers. We are going north.”

“Where north, pray?”

“Ŭthol Na. Our mother had a brother there, at least that’s what we last heard.”

“Why would a pair of brats travel north in the winter?”

Min La hesitated before he answered. He glanced at So Ga. “My brother is sick,” he said and raised his eyebrows at So Ga, hoping he would understand. “He is very sick.”

So Ga blinked in realization, then he buried his face in his shoulder and coughed dramatically.

“Our mother,” Min La went on, “she told us that her brother was once a gifted physician. She died in the summer and we were driven from our home. I do not think my brother will survive another winter. We have no choice but to try to find our uncle.”

“Such a sad tale,” the man said, still smiling gently. “And delivered so convincingly that if I didn’t know the truth I might have believed you.”

“Please, sir,” Min La said. “Please, let us go. We did not know we were trespassing in your village, we just wanted shelter for the night.”

“An innocent tale to match an innocent face. We both know that you are Koda spies. It is the fairness of your countenances that convinced me. You do not have the filth of the Houseless on you. Look at you. Well-dressed and well-fed. Koda takes care of its little dogs, it seems.”

“I swear to you, sir. We are not Koda.”

“Then you serve them. You will not deceive me.”

One of his men approached and said, “My lord, should we send word to Von Ol?”

The commander’s lip twisted into a snarl and then settled immediately back into his gentle smile. He loathed Von Ol. More than that, Min La thought, he loathed his servitude to Ŏklo.

“You serve Ŏklo?” Min La asked suddenly, his mind working faster and faster. “Von Ol Ŏklo?”

The commander turned to stare at him, his smile gone. “What of it?”

Min La had begun to notice something. This man’s swords did not call him “captain” or “commander”, but rather “my lord”. This together with the quality of his cloth and the way his men looked at him suggested that perhaps this man was not merely their commander, he might also be the Tolo Dol Housemaster.

Min La leaned forward eagerly. “You do serve Ŏklo? I did not know you served such a grand House. And I have heard that Von Ol is such a bold and wise Housemaster.”

The commander took one step towards Min La and said, “Von Ol is not the Ŏklo Housemaster. He is merely master of the eastern estates. And he is about as wise as the pole to which you are tied, or are you as stupid as you are unlucky?”

“If you serve such a grand House, you must also be grand yourself. I wonder I haven’t heard of Tolo Dol. Is your servitude to Ŏklo new?”

The commander struck Min La hard with the back of his hand. He tasted blood on his lip and tried not to smile. His plan was working.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “My brother and I are just ignorant Houseless orphans. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“My House,” the commander said, his lips quivering with anger, “serves no one. And certainly not that bloated fool, Von Ol.”

Min La nodded. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.”

The man said nothing for a long time, staring fixedly at Min La who had dropped his gaze and then turned to smile reassuringly at So Ga. The man watched this, then he narrowed his eyes and tilted his head.

“Perhaps they are Koda spies,” he said. “And perhaps they aren’t.”

Min La looked at him and shook his head violently. “No, my lord, I swear—”

But he put up a hand, silencing him.

The man’s subordinate came again. “My lord,” he murmured, eyes wide. “We are obliged to deliver anyone we suspect of being a Koda spy to the Ŏklo estate.”

The commander scoffed, his eyes still fixed on Min La. “We are obliged to do nothing.” Turning, he added. “If Von Ol wants Koda spies so badly, he can come and catch them himself.”

“My lord, if we fail to deliver what Von Ol has demanded, the rest of our House—”

But the commander silenced him with a dark look. Turning, he glanced again at Min La, and then looked away.

Many long minutes passed. The commander’s men watched him closely. Min La held his breath. He could not imagine any House in Láokoth happy in the servitude of Von Ol Ŏklo. He couldn’t imagine a Housemaster pleased to serve the nefarious ends of a man like him. The history of Láokoth was filled with stories of proud Houses brought low, who were eager to seize any opportunity to lift themselves up again. The greatest Houses had many rises and falls in their histories. Everyone knew that.

“Von Ol Ŏklo is a fool,” the commander said to his men. “And Tolo Dol has been dirtying their hands on his behalf for too long.”

“You cannot be considering giving them back to Koda? What if they are spies? What if they carry knowledge that would lead to the destruction of Ŏklo?”

“Yes,” the man said thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t that be a pity.”

It was not difficult to guess the thoughts of the commander. He had plainly been outraged by the mere association of his House with Von Ol. He had had his villages emptied, his lands taken, his men used. Men who find themselves crushed under an enemy often need very little convincing to turn and attack.

“If we give such a man a way to fight back without risking himself too much,” Min La’s brother-in-law whispered in his head, “he will usually choose it without hesitation. A man who has had his power taken from him will be comforted to feel himself take a little of it back. But it must be his idea, little shadow. A man brought low by servitude will not suffer the commands of anyone, not even a friend.”

“My lord,” the Tolo Dol men said, growing nervous in their commander’s silence. “My lord, all of Sona Gen knows of our link to Ŏklo.”

The commander’s shoulders tensed. He said, “They know also of the Ŏklo boot on our throat.”

“A defeated man,” Min La’s brother-in-law would say, “is always looking for a way to tear pieces off the one who defeated him. The trick is to make such a thing serve you as well.”

The Tolo Dol commander turned. He looked first at his men, and then out past the edge of his camp to the trickling creek and the treeline beyond, and, beyond that, the violet Osa Len mountaintops glowing amber in the rising sun.

“They are not Koda spies,” he said.

“My lord,” one of his men said in a low voice. “What if they are?”

“They are not Koda spies if I say they aren’t.” Then he shook his head. “They are nothing.”

“And so what should we do with them? Let them go?”

The commander did not answer. He looked at Min La and clasped his hands behind his back.

So Ga looked with wide eyes at Min La who had finally begun to breathe again. Just as the Tolo Dol commander was opening his mouth to give his men orders, a scout ran into the encampment, his yellow cloak flapping behind him.

“My lord,” he said, pale and breathless. “My lord, murder!”

“What?” the commander demanded, his eyes flashing. “Speak plainly.”

“One of ours,” he answered. “One of ours dead in the forest. Run through with a sword.”

The Tolo Dol commander heard this and then turned, eyes wide, to Min La.

“My lord,” Min La said, panic setting in his chest. “I did not—”

“You with your pretty words and your sad tale. And yet you have killed one of my men.”

“I have killed no one, I don’t even have a sword.”

“Take him,” he motioned to his men who came to untie his ropes.

Min La’s mind fell suddenly blank. He felt the ropes loosen at his wrists and his legs gave out, sending him sprawling into the mud again. He looked up at So Ga whose mouth was open to speak. But Min La shook his head.

He couldn’t think, he couldn’t think.

They had killed no one. But someone had. Who? Bandits? Mercenaries? Ŏklo? No, perhaps it was Koda. The men took him by the arms and hauled him to his feet. His hands were pulled behind him and bound again.

“I knew you could not be trusted,” the Tolo Dol commander said, from very far away. “I should have done this last night. I will not give you to Ŏklo, but you will pay for the blood you’ve spilled.”

“I’ve spilled no blood,” Min La answered as they pushed him to his knees. “My brother and—”

But he silenced as soon as he felt the sword’s cold metal touch his neck.

“No, wait!” So Ga cried.

“Quiet!” Min La yelled. He had to think. The sword’s edge caught a strand of his hair and he felt a tug before it succumbed to the blade. The strand fell across his collarbone, tickling his skin like the legs of beetle.

They were going to kill him. And after they killed him, they would also kill So Ga. Min La looked at him; his mouth was clamped shut, but his eyes were wide. He was confused and frightened, but he trusted Min La.

These men needed payment for blood spilled. They did not care about the feud between Koda and Ŏklo. Min La looked at their commander, his eyes shining in the first rays of the sun, his pale face grim with anger. One of his men had been killed, one of the last of his dwindling House. Like any good Housemaster, he only wanted justice.

He would be satisfied with justice.

Min La lifted his head. “I did it!” he cried, barely able to believe the words that were coming out of his mouth. “I did it, I’m sorry. I killed him.”

The man holding the sword stood back in surprise. Even the Tolo Dol commander’s face flickered with shock.

Min La went on, “My brother and I, we have suffered many hardships on our journey. Even Ŏklo swords tried to kill us. Your man, he threatened us, I thought he would kill us. I acted in self defense.” He bowed, then, so deeply that his forehead touched the cold mud. “If you want justice for your slain man, kill me and you will have it.” Lifting his head, he looked at the Tolo Dol commander. “But I’m begging you, spare my brother.”

Something changed in the face of the Tolo Dol Housemaster. He lifted his chin, the light in his eyes dimming. Without a word, he gestured to the man holding the sword.

A hand came and pushed Min La to the ground. His head was turned so that he could not see So Ga. The sword was placed against his neck where the cool edge felt as sharp as the northern wind. A pounding sound filled his ears: his heart. As the sword lifted, he closed his eyes.

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Chapter Fifty-One

Ŏlo Hin had parted ways with Namo Non just outside the Ŏklo estate.

“He isn’t here,” Namo Non had said, sounding foolish as usual. “We should report back to Táno Gín.”

“Do what you like,” Ŏlo Hin had replied. “I will continue to the mountain road.”

“And if you find him?”

Ŏlo Hin had offered the mercenary a thin smile. “If I find him, I will, of course, bring him to your captain.”

Namo Non had seemed displeased by this, but said nothing. He had left soon after, to Ŏlo Hin’s great relief.

Ŏlo Hin preferred solitude. He had since he was a child. Men confused him, with their lies and their hypocrisy. None more so than his own father, Sivo Hin Ŏklo, that wretch of a man. His father had made promises to Ŏlo Hin’s Houseless mother and then, after he had been been born, had refused to keep them.

“The child is wrong,” he had said. “Something about him is wrong. I will not claim him until he can prove himself.”

She had not been much better. When Ŏlo Hin was five, she had abandoned him at a temple in Ŏno Soth not far from his father’s estate. He never saw her again, not that he wished to. She had no love for him, and so he had no love for her.

Not long after, the monks had offered him to the army. In this his father had finally intervened. He had plucked Ŏlo Hin from Houseless obscurity and set about training him in his own estate. He had not been not permitted to call him “father” nor could he share in his daily life, but it had seemed like a beginning, at least.

“Once you distinguish yourself,” he had said again and again, “I will add you to the Ŏklo House register.”

It was during this time that Sivo Hin had sent his daughter to live at the eastern Ŏklo main estate in the Osa Len Mountains, Von Ol’s estate. Ŏlo Hin had overheard the maids say that Sivo Hin feared for his daughter with him there.

Ŏlo Hin had decided then to prove himself to his father. He would prove that he was not a mindless, Houseless brute. He would prove that he was superior to the rest of his father’s swords. He would make his father sorry to have doubted him.

And so he had begun to train. Within a year he could defeat any of his father’s swords in archery, despite being only sixteen. It was not long after that he could overcome any of them in single combat, though they often complained that he had cheated. This had always amused him. He had laughed at them and said, “Do you think your enemy will follow your rules? If you do not cheat, you will die.”

But no matter what he did, his father still was not pleased. It was true there were times when Ŏlo Hin’s anger would overcome him and he would take it out on one of the servants in his father’s estate. But they were only women and children. His father did not value them anymore than he did. But he only pretended to do so. And didn’t that make him much worse? What worth is a man’s protection or affection if it is all pretend?

Nine years ago Sivo Hin had summoned him. He had never before been summoned by his father and thought that perhaps he would finally receive his due.

“You will go east,” he had said. “To Nŭnoth in Hin Dan. The king has condemned the Nŭnon House and I have arranged to have you placed in command there. You will be my sword.”

He had bidden his son to kneel to receive the king’s command. Ŏlo Hin’s heart had hammered in his chest. At last! He would finally receive a command befitting his skill and his birth. After all, his father was the brother-in-law of the Ŏklo Housemaster. He was part of the Ŏklo high family.

Ŏlo Hin, nineteen years old, had ridden at the head of the king’s own swords with all possible haste to the Nŭnon estate in Hin Dan. And, according to the orders from King Mŭ So himself, he had carried out the execution of the entire Nŭnon House. And he had done so faster than anyone had believed possible. Not a single soul survived. This he reported with great pride, together with a collection of signed confessions from the prince’s officers and highest ministers.

But the king and his father had not answered his service with thanks or congratulations. He was not praised or rewarded. He was sent away. Even now, nine years later, he did not understand why.

It was after his father had been made the royal officer at Osa Gate — after he had, once again, refused to claim him — that Ŏlo Hin had met his true master.

“They do not understand you as I do,” the old man had said to him when they met in secret. “Your father is a fool and so is the king. But if you serve me, I swear to you that I will not abandon you.”

Ŏlo Hin had asked why he had chosen him.

“Because of what you did in Hin Dan. Only a great commander could have carried out such a deed without question or hesitation. You will be an invaluable part of my mission.”

“And my father?” Ŏlo Hin had asked.

The old man had studied him before answering. “Do you not hate him?” he had said at last. “How many times has he lied to you? Do you not understand? He is using you, my son. He knows your value but he wants to pretend it is his. The reason he does not claim you is so that he can claim your deeds as his own. He has done it countless times in court. But I see the truth.”

“And Hin Dan?” Ŏlo Hin had asked. “What of that?”

“Your father used it to see himself placed in Osa Gate. He thinks he has power now. But he is just my puppet. You will see.”

“You are using him?”

“And soon I will destroy him, and his entire House with him.” The old man had tilted his head to look into Ŏlo Hin’s eyes. “Does that please you?”

Ŏlo Hin had not answered.

“All these old Houses are veined through with rot. All of them. And your father’s, Ŏklo, is one of the worst. Houses like his will not survive. You will see. They will spoil and rot, and then they will turn to dust. I promise you, my boy, one day soon you will see your father and his House crushed under the weight of his own hypocrisy.”

It was true that this thought brought Ŏlo Hin happiness. But it also brought him sorrow. He still didn’t understand why. But his master cared for him and praised him. And so he trusted him.

And if he wanted Ŏlo Hin to remain among Táno Gín’s Houseless mercenaries, then that was where he would stay, no matter how much it annoyed him.

As he wove through the forest near the mountain road a night and a day after leaving the Ŏklo estate, Ŏlo Hin spotted a trio of scouts. These were not Táno Gín’s men, that was plain enough by the yellow cloaks they wore. They were not Ŏklo, either, nor did they come from Osa Gate. He wondered if they could be Koda.

Their yellow cloaks were like streaks of dull gold in the building darkness. They were unadorned, as was their armor — simple breastplates of leather and metal — but he was not able to make out anything they were saying.

On a whim, he decided to follow them. Perhaps he could ask them. And if they wouldn’t answer…

Three men wouldn’t be missed, especially if their bodies were never found. The thrumming tension of his meeting yesterday with his father still vibrated through him, like a plucked bowstring. If he spent a bit of that energy, he would certainly feel more at ease.

He kept soundlessly to the forest while they wove down an old dirt path, a narrow passage through the woods. As he followed, he tried to determine their origin. But he knew little of Koda, or any of the other small Houses in this part of Sona Gen.

As night fell, their path led them to a small village, one of those deep mountain villages of the old, small Houses that sought neither glory nor riches. Though this one seemed abandoned. Looking upon the dark shapes of its small houses, Ŏlo Hin wondered if his father had brought his borrowed swords here from Osa Gate to eliminate these villages so Ŏklo could take their land. Following Von Ol’s orders, of course. Just as Ŏlo Hin had been following the king’s orders in Hin Dan. There were times when Ŏlo Hin thought that there was no greater hypocrite in all of Láokoth than his father.

The three men had stopped. They were whispering to each other and motioning. Looking in the direction of their attention, Ŏlo Hin saw that one of the house’s windows was glowing with light. The three men seemed to be both surprised and worried by this and had put their hands on the hilts of their swords.

Curiosity overcame his desire to spill blood, and so Ŏlo Hin crouched behind the trees, watching.

The men approached the house slowly. The light in the windows went out for a moment, and then reappeared. Their approach had been noticed; Ŏlo Hin wondered if they would be attacked. But after they burst through the little house’s door, he heard nothing for several long minutes, no screams, no report of metal, just muffled footsteps. Just as he was starting to grow bored, the three men emerged from the house, bringing with them two others, both bound.

Ŏlo Hin stood with a start. The two prisoners were young men, of the same age, both with long tolibin hair, both dressed like travelers or pilgrims.

He had found them, the prince and his last bodysword. He had found them. So surprised was he by his luck that he nearly forgot to stay hidden. Crouching back down, he considered what he ought to do.

In his most recent letter, his master had told him not to touch the fleeing prince. This order confused Ŏlo Hin as it seemed to contradict the orders Táno Gín had received. But, Ŏlo Hin reminded himself, Táno Gín worked for the Orin Han Housemaster in Gŏhíth. He did not work for Ŏlo Hin’s master. Although, Ŏlo Hin’s master was supposed to be working with Orin Han.

He shook his head. Politics was the arena of his master, not him. Even if it made no sense to him, he had only to follow his master’s commands. And his master had bade him serve Táno Gín, but not to kill the prince. Perhaps he just wanted Táno Gín to be the one to kill him. That made some sense.

In any event, he wouldn’t attack. Instead he would follow the three men and their prisoners and once he knew where they were being held, he would report to Táno Gín.

Keeping at a distance, as before, Ŏlo Hin followed the group as they moved away from the village along the narrow dirt road. The scouts in yellow had lighted a lantern and were using it to illuminate the path before them.

One of the two prisoners walked with a noticeable limp; he wondered if that one was the prince or if the other was the prince and that was his last bodysword. They were otherwise identical, he decided. At least, there was no real difference between the two that Ŏlo Hin could detect. Táno Gín would have to kill both to be sure.

After an hour or more of walking they reached a small encampment in a little clearing on the bank of a creek. Ŏlo Hin had encountered this trickling creek before but here it had widened into something resembling a river. A simple narrow bridge had been built over it for carts, but in some places a man could probably cross it in a leap.

A half dozen tents had been erected on the western side of the river. Lanterns and torches illuminated the camp which was otherwise quiet save for two guards. These greeted the approaching group with surprise. The prisoners were handed over with a brief explanation, then the three went to one of the tents — their commander’s, no doubt — to deliver a report. Ŏlo Hin would have to wait till morning to determine how many swords there were here. Too many and Táno Gín might not be able to take the prisoners by force.

He settled in behind a tree. The night would be long and cold, but if they were successful, this would finally complete their mission and he would be allowed to return to the capital, and to his master’s side.

Reaching for his bag, he retrieved a piece of fried bread he had been saving. He tore off little pieces and chewed thoughtfully, watching the two guards who had deposited the prisoners in one of the tents as they returned to patrol the perimeter of the encampment.

Leaves crushed behind him and he turned, dropping the bread. A man stood there, his yellow cloak gleaming in the darkness, a look of shock on his face. Ŏlo Hin put his hand on the hilt of his sword, he pulled the blade loose a few inches just as the scout lifted his fingers to his lips to whistle.

But then the man stopped. His brow furrowed and he stared at Ŏlo Hin with a look of recognition.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” he said. “Sivo Hin’s bastard son.”

Ŏlo Hin didn’t let go of his sword.

“Relax,” the man went on, holding out his hands. “You and I are on the same side. I didn’t know you were here. Did your father send you? That old fool Von Ol has us combing these woods for Koda spies like he thinks it’s the First War with Srenléth. They just found a couple, as it happens. Would you relax.”

“You’re Ŏklo?” Ŏlo Hin asked.

The man scoffed. “Don’t insult us. No, we’re Tolo Dol. You’ve not heard of us. A few villages around here used to be ours, before…” He shrugged and looked away.

So they were one of Von Ol’s victims, a House brought low and then made into slaves. Ŏlo Hin laughed through his teeth and sheathed his sword.

The man narrowed his eyes and said, “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.”

“What business is it of yours?”

“Did you father send you? I had heard he threw you away.” And he grinned, his teeth shining in the darkness.

Ŏlo Hin’s eyes flashed. The man did not know to be afraid at the sight of it. Instead he laughed.

“You stupid little man,” he said. “Do you still think that old fool will claim you? And now that he’s getting a So Hoth son-in-law, what use does he have for a bastard? Especially after what you did in Hin Dan.”

Ŏlo Hin’s sword was out of its sheath before the man had even finished speaking. With a single, deft motion, he pierced the blade through his throat. Shock contorted his face as blood poured like a waterfall down his body. Seconds passed and he crumpled in the leaves, his wide eyes bulging, blood still streaming from the wound in his throat.

As he cleaned his sword and put it away, Ŏlo Hin murmured, “I did nothing I was not ordered to do by my father and the king. Why do you all cast away the sword and not the arm that wielded it?”

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Chapter Fifty

Osa Len Mountains, northeast of the Ŏklo Estate

They walked for almost a day and a half, following a little stream that trickled through the forest, pausing only long enough to sleep in a hole in the ground made by a felled tree. Its roots, a gray knot as tall as Min La, were enough of a roof to protect them from the frost but not the cold. Min La woke with a deep ache in his left leg that was starting to worry him.

As the noon sun rose yellow on the second day, baking away the crisp chill of the morning, they stopped again. They had nearly run out of food; there was only a little of the sausage left and he was saving that for So Ga. Sitting on a dried, hollow tree trunk, Min La rubbed his knee.

So Ga had gone to the creek to refill their water. Bringing Min La’s back to him, he held it out saying, “Are you alright?”

Min La nodded and took the water. So Ga sat next to him and glanced down at his hand as it worked the muscles around his knee. But he didn’t say anything.

“Will we have to sleep in the open again?” he asked instead.

Min La shook his head. “I expect we’ll find a village today. Or even an inn. After we rest we’ll start moving closer to the road.”

“Is that safe?”

“It’s no more dangerous than anything else.” And he offered So Ga a smile. And then he winced as a spasm of pain shot through his head.

So Ga’s brow furrowed. “Is your head better?”

The blow Min La had received in his fight outside the Ŏklo estate had stopped bleeding almost as soon as it had been bandaged, but by nightfall, he was enveloped in a consuming headache that had been powerful enough to turn his stomach. He’d vomited twice and hadn’t felt relief until So Ga had wrapped his head in a cloth soaked in cold water from the stream. By morning the ache had subsided a little, but the bright light of midday was proving a little harsher than usual.

“Yes,” he answered, and touched the side of his head. It was still tender, but otherwise the situation had improved.

So Ga nodded. “Good. You should eat more. You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

Min La laughed lightly. “Never mind me, Your Highness. I’ve been through worse.”

So Ga pursed his lips. As he stood up he muttered something Min La couldn’t hear.

“Where are you going?” he asked him.

“I’m getting wood for a fire.” He shot a glance over his shoulder. “So we can cook something.”

Min La followed him around the forest, watching as he gathered weeds and mushrooms. As he did so he explained what they were, giving their names and describing their flavors. Min La stared at him.

Realizing at last that the image of a foraging prince was a little unbelievable, So Ga explained, “The place where the Four Little Palaces were built used to be a large wood. I used to spend as much time there as I was allowed. I would pretend I was Netholom on one of his adventures.”

Min La smiled at the image.

“In a way it was nice,” So Ga went on. “When my father built the Spring Courtyard, he planted our palaces in one of my favorite places. Most of the trees were removed, of course. But sometimes one or two would try to grow back.”

Listening to him talk, Min La was struck by the way So Ga seemed to never have anything to complain about. He couldn’t imagine living his life imprisoned in a small stone palace. He couldn’t imagine being separated from his only living family for almost a decade. He didn’t understand how So Ga was not angrier. How was he not angry at their circumstances? How was he not angry at the mercenaries who had killed everyone he had once known?

In a moment of curiosity brought on, he was convinced, by the blow to his head, Min La nearly asked him. But then he turned and used a stick to overturn leaf piles in search of mushrooms, as So Ga was doing.

At the base of an oak tree he unburied a small cluster of shining blue mushrooms. Min La recognized them as blue caps, popular for their nutty flavor. Their stems were short and fat and the glossy blue caps dotted with spots of white. They looked like fried cakes nestled in a bed of leaves. Reaching for one, he lifted it to his lips.

So Ga appeared suddenly and swatted the mushroom out of his hand. Min La staggered back, stunned.

“I’m sorry,” So Ga said. “Not those ones.”

“These are not poisonous. I’ve seen many people eat them all over Láokoth.”

“Yes, but you have to cook them first. You cannot eat them like this.” Bending, he picked up the mushrooms Min La had dropped. With a smile he added, “They are my favorite. I’ll show you how to cook them.”

They went back to their felled tree and Min La used the sticks to build a fire, lighting it with the iron striker from his bag. While the little flame grew, Min La cut the last of the sausage into thin slices while So Ga washed the mushrooms and leaves he had gathered.

Holding up one of the glossy blue caps, he said, “These grew in the little forest in the Palace when I was child. My mother used to have them fry them every spring and autumn when we found them. They were always one of my favorite things to eat. And I was always so proud when I found them myself and then ate them after the Palace cook had prepared them. It made me feel like a real adventurer.” After a moment of thoughtful silence, he continued. “When I was seven, I slipped away from the maids who were minding me and went into the forest myself. I found a little patch of these mushrooms and sat there in a bed of moss blithely picking them and eating them.” He smiled as he tore the caps off the mushrooms and rinsed them in the trickling creek. “I was sick for a year. They were certain I would die. But I didn’t. Although, ever since…” he gestured to his chest. And Min La at last understood.

So Ga brought everything to Min La by the fire. They used a hot stone to cook the mushrooms and then ate them with the sausage wrapped in the tender leaves. It was a surprisingly satisfying meal.

“Do you know,” So Ga said, cleaning his hands in the creek while Min La buried the fire in mud. “That mushroom has different names everywhere, but it is particularly prized in Luntov. Do you know what they call it there?”

Min La shook his head.

“The blue prince.”

As soon as they began to walk again, Min La’s knee began to throb. They would need to stop again soon or he wouldn’t be able to walk at all.

It was like the old man had said after he’d pulled him from the pile of bodies in Hin Dan, he would never quite be symmetrical. Only when he had to walk for days on end did his bad knee start to bother him. And, he assumed, the fight hadn’t helped. Twice he paused to rub the muscles above his kneecap. So Ga said nothing.

Despite the pain in his leg and the ache in his head, Min La was distracted by So Ga’s story and the sight of the little parcels of medicine in the bag that Ona Lín had given to them. He thought of the strange look of sorrow she had had in her eyes when she had been listening to So Ga’s chest. Though the prince was small and weak, he didn’t seem sickly enough to warrant such a sad reaction. Looking at him now, Min La didn’t think he looked like he was in any danger.

“What did she mean?” Min La asked.

So Ga turned to him, blinking in surprise. Then he looked away. “What did who mean?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

He sighed. “My ailment is an old one. I’ve always known it cannot be cured, but merely managed.”

“You’ve always known?”

“My father had several physicians see me in secret, but none of them were able to do anything more than manage the symptoms. After the Little Palaces were built, I think he finally accepted it.”

“Why in secret?”

“He was concerned that if one of his children was known to be physically damaged in some way, it would harm the strength of the Sona House.”

Min La considered that in silence, then with a frown he said, “That’s a very tolibin way of thinking.”

“Perhaps. But it’s not entirely wrong.” So Ga smiled suddenly, taking his water out of his bag. “You now know a secret that my father has never allowed anyone to know outside my little palace.”

“But if it can be managed you can still live a long life.”

So Ga nodded and sipped some water. “Hin Lan used to say that.”

“Who?”

“My old tutor.”

As the sky was turning blue, they found themselves upon an old dirt path. It was still clear, but no longer maintained. Min La suspected it hadn’t been used in several months. Following it, they found a small village. The road turned around a clutch of leaning maples, then dipped a little into a small valley. As it slid down into the valley, several wooden structures appeared along its curving length. In the distance, up an incline, other little structures were visible. Between the trees they saw still more. Sections of the forest had been cleared for planting, and a stone well hunched in the center of everything.

But there were no people. There also wasn’t a single candle or lantern anywhere.

The cleared patches of forest were already partially overgrown with weeds, the road, in disrepair, guttered in mud patches and hollows.

“I think it’s abandoned,” So Ga said, surveying the little village with wide eyes.

“Von Ol Ŏklo’s handiwork, I assume,” Min La murmured.

“Do you really think so?”

Min La motioned. “This whole village was probably part of one of the Houses he absorbed. The village itself was cleared or relocated. Or…”

So Ga stared at him. “Or?”

At that moment, Min La’s knee gave out under him. He staggered and fell, half-kneeling, on the muddy road. So Ga helped him stand and then supported him with his shoulder under his arm.

“I just need to rest,” Min La said before So Ga could ask.

“Rest where?”

With a grim smile, Min La motioned broadly, “You choose.”

So Ga didn’t spend much time thinking. He simply led Min La to the closest structure. The little gate was still open — So Ga closed it behind them — and the front door was not bolted in any way. As they made their way inside, both silently offered apologies for their trespass.

The interior of the little house, eerie in its stillness, seemed to have been abandoned abruptly and not that long ago. Though coated in a layer of dust, it had not yet been taken back by nature or ransacked by mountain bandits. Blankets, tables, cups and bowls all sat in their places around the interior as if the occupants had simply stepped out for the day. Were it not for the coating of dust, that’s exactly what they would have assumed.

So Ga found cushions near a low table that sat crookedly before the cold stove at the center of the little house’s main room. He helped Min La sit and then went back to close the door and find candles. The dark had gathered quickly and it was already difficult to see, as the moon and stars were also shrouded.

Thinking of So Ga’s medicine, Min La told him to light the stove. The prince seemed relieved by the thought of a fire. There was already wood in a pile nearby. Before long the room was well-lit and warm and little pot of water was simmering while So Ga portioned out a small dose of the medicine Ona Lín had given to him.

“It’s the same they gave me in the Palace,” he said with a smile. “And those are the finest physicians in the world.”

They had also found a barrel of grain only half empty and an assortment of dried herbs. It was enough for the night; tomorrow they could buy meat somewhere closer to the road.

While Min La ate, he watched So Ga tent himself over his pot of steam. His deep breaths were even and smooth. Even Min La’s knee felt better in the little warm room.

“Are you glad to have a roof again?” Min La asked him with a smile.

So Ga’s covered head nodded.

Min La found himself remembering Nŏl and Hino Son. They hadn’t been apart from them for more than two days and already they felt like they were a fragment of another life. At least to Min La. He had had the strange sensation when they had parted that he would never see them again. It made him wonder where this path would lead him after Osa Gate, which was a thought he had not time to think in many days. Nor was it one that he liked remembering. The path they were on was difficult enough; there was no point in making it even more complicated by considering a future of endlessly diverging possibilities.

His brother-in-law used to say that no action should ever be taken unless the next ten were already planned. But then Să Han, Min La’s brother, would disagree.

“One must only be certain of the next step,” he would say. “But do not lift your foot unless you know exactly where you will put it down.”

“Do you miss them?” So Ga asked suddenly, emerging from under his blanket, his face pink and shining.

For a startled moment, Min La wondered if he had heard his thoughts and was asking about his family. But then he realized that So Ga meant Nŏl and Hino Son. And he wasn’t sure how to answer. On the one hand, it was a relief not to have to keep their secrets from them. On the other hand—

“What do you think he’ll do?” So Ga asked. “Nŏl, I mean, about his House?”

Min La shook his head. “Hopefully he’ll clean it. But he’ll have to be careful. He can do anything he needs to within his own House. But if his actions touch the court—”

“My father might have to intervene.”

“He’s smart,” Min La said with a nod. “He knows how to be careful.”

So Ga dried his face and stood to take the pot outside.

“We, too, will have to be careful,” Min La added. “The closer we get to the mountain road, the closer we are to Koda lands. With the silver mines in their care, I expect they’ll be guarding that part of the forest very closely.”

So Ga did not answer. He stood frozen in front of the closed door holding the pot with both hands.

“What is it?” Min La asked.

“Do you hear that?”

The question sparked through him like lightning. He reached for the lantern and snuffed it before So Ga had even finished uttering the last word. With the stove closed, it offered little illumination and so the room was blacked by shadow. They held their breath and listened.

In the distance, voices. They grew louder as they approached, the casual chatter of men on patrol. Min La recognized the sound of boots, and the occasional metallic ping of armor. With a whisper, he called So Ga back.

Carrying the pot, he returned and knelt next to Min La.

“Put that down.”

So Ga stared dumbly at the pot in his hands, then he quickly planted it near the stove, sending its contents into a tumult of waves that sloshed over the sides.

“Take this,” Min La said, pushing the bag of medicine into his hands. He also tucked the mercenary’s knife into it. “Hide it.”

“What?”

“We cannot run. We are in the middle of territory that Koda must patrol regularly.”

“But their land is on the other side of the road.”

Min La shook his head. “We can’t run. But if you do as I say, we can get out of this.”

So Ga swallowed, his pale face a shade whiter.

“So Ga,” Min La said, gripping his arm. “Just do as I say.”

At last So Ga nodded, and turned to find a hiding place for their bag in the little house. Min La tried to take account of anything else they might have on them that could give them away. The bag had been given to them by Ona Lín, which would betray a connection to Ŏklo. The knife was a recognizable relic of the mercenaries, but their own bags were safe.

With a start he gripped the chain around his neck. “Wait!” he whispered sharply.

So Ga stopped and turned.

“Your seal. Here, take mine.” As Min La spoke, he took off his brother’s medallion and held it out to him. “And your seal. Hide them.”

So Ga nodded, wrenching the thick golden chain out from under his golt. Taking Min La’s silver medallion, he gathered both into his fist and disappeared into a back room of the little house.

As the sounds of footsteps drew nearer, Min La reached for the stove and opened the door a crack, allowing the fire’s illumination to spill into the room. After a moment So Ga returned.

“There was a place under a board. I buried them.”

Min La nodded. “Remember, speak as little as possible. Do as I do. And now help me stand.”

As he did, the door of the little house burst open and three men, armed and wearing cloaks of deep yellow, stepped into the warm, glowing room.

“Well,” said one of them, as he took in the scene before him and the two young men standing at its center. “What do we have here?”

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Chapter Forty-Nine

Balo Sonen entered the king’s residence just as the moon slipped behind a silver veil of clouds. The blue shadows of the Palace grounds were plunged suddenly into inky blackness dotted in spots by the golden light of lanterns and torches. Winter nights were thicker, it seemed, and the Palace and all the world was too dark for the light to overcome.

Balo, a man of sixty, was not particularly tall and was conscious of this shortcoming especially in the presence of King Mŭ So who towered over him. Some years ago, he had had bits of wood fashioned to place in the heels of his leather shoes. These lent him an inch or two, and he made a point of standing as straight and tall as he could. Often he would practice in front of the polished brass mirror in his estate.

His hair was white and gray and cut short around his ears. A thin beard covered his chin and jaw, giving him a strangely sagacious appearance. He was aware of this, of course. Just as he was aware that certain fabrics made him seem taller and certain styles of golts made him seem shorter. Every aspect of his person and his appearance was carefully calculated.

This evening, for instance, he had changed into a golt of dark silvery-gray. It could not be black, as that was the color used by the royal servants of the Palace House and even by the king himself, and he did not want to appear to be putting on airs. But the dark shimmery silk made him look slender and striking, but not too ostentatious. For this reason he had also had the embroidery along the collar and sleeves done in a muted brown, lest it appear too fine. He did not wear a hat, but his cloak of brown velvet was heavy enough and thick enough to keep him warm on this cold evening. Though, as always, he still felt a chill in the corridors of the king’s residence.

He had entered the Palace without an attendant. Balo didn’t trust attendants, nor did he trust bodyswords. He preferred to carry out important tasks himself and despised the other ministers’ habit of trailing a train of attendants and swords in an effort to inflate their prestige. And anyway, for the first half of his life he had been unable to afford such luxuries, and so he had become accustomed to doing without them.

In truth, he despised the ministers and he trusted no one. For this reason, he also refused to associate with other members of his House. To him, the Sonen House was a distant relation of no importance. His life and his plans were his own.

An aged servant led him through the dimly-lit corridors of the king’s residence. Clasping his hands behind his back, Balo pursed his lips and puffed his chest a bit in an effort to straighten his spine still more. The journey to the king’s bedchamber was a long one, but a familiar one. He was familiar with the night-black shadows of the king’s residence, familiar with his mute army of hollow-eyed maids and bent servants. Balo Sonen was familiar enough with the king’s residence to no longer feel that thrill of importance he had once known when this had all begun. More and more these trips to the Palace and the king’s residence had become tiresome.

And besides, he knew also that it wasn’t the king he was here to see, not precisely. Though the message had said that the king had summoned him, he knew who had written it. Éna Lí had her own plans and schemes and navigating those had begun to take up most of his time. He would need to find a way to remind her that she was not his master.

At last the aged servant brought Balo as far as the tall embroidered screen at the door to the king’s bedchamber. He shuffled alone into the room and announced Balo’s arrival. Then, without waiting for the old fool to hobble back and escort him, Balo brushed past him and into the king’s presence.

King Mŭ So was sitting at a little table against the wall opposite his large wooden bed. A single lantern lighted the tabletop which was set with tea for two. The king was pale and thin, but even when he was sitting in this casual way he still exuded dignity and grace.

While Balo knelt and bowed, the king adjusted a black velvet cloak around his shoulders. He told him to stand and then motioned to the seat opposite his own at the table. Without hesitating, Balo sat. As he did so, he glanced across the room to a spot in the shadows between pillars of flickering yellow lanterns. She stood there in her black silk, her long brown hair shining like spun silk. When Balo looked at her, she smiled and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

The king poured Balo tea. He accepted it with both hands and his head bowed, but the king seemed distracted.

“Your Majesty,” he ventured carefully, after the king’s silence had continued for some time. “Your Majesty, you have summoned me tonight because…?”

The king looked at him. His tired eyes were bright and sharp and Balo felt his heart leap.

“Have I?” the king asked. Then he glanced across the room at Éna Lí. After sipping his tea, he asked, “I have heard that you are looking for him.”

Balo bowed his head. “Your Majesty, I don’t know—”

“I am tired, Balo. I haven’t the time nor the interest to play court games about who knows what. I understand you are looking for the missing prince.”

Balo set his tea upon the table and put his hands on his knees. With another glance at Éna Lí, he sighed and struggled to contain his irritation.

How Éna Lí had found out that he was looking for the missing little prince was irrelevant. She had eyes — and hands — everywhere in this accursed city. When all of this had begun Balo had hoped he could use Éna Lí, rely on her even, as an ally of sorts. After all, having a friend in a high position in the Palace House would be good for him. He had helped her achieve that and so now she was in a position to help him. And yet here she was, once again working against him.

“I see, Your Majesty,” he murmured.

“What was that?”

“I am sorry, Your Majesty. I had hoped to find him quickly and return him to the Palace at which time I—”

“At which time you would accept your reward?”

“Your Majesty, I only wish to serve you and help you.”

The king scoffed quietly, rubbing his temples with the tips of his fingers.

“And so?” he asked.

Balo leaned forward. “Your Majesty?”

“And so, have you found him or haven’t you?”

“I am sorry, Your Majesty.” Balo hung his head. “I have not.”

The king nodded, breathing deeply with his eyes closed. For a moment Balo thought perhaps he had fallen asleep. But then he drew out a folded page from the inner pocket of his golt. It was sealed with a large black square of wax stamped with the impression of the Sona House falcon and hemlock. This he handed to Balo.

As he took it with both hands and his head bowed, Balo was aware of movement out of the corner of his eye. Éna Lí had started at the sight of the sealed paper. The motion had caused a gleaming ripple over the buttery surface of her black golt. The mere fact that the page surprised her brought Balo certain satisfaction.

The king tapped the folded paper in Balo’s hand and said, “That should help you.”

Balo bowed and thanked him, tucking his hands — with the king’s message — into his sleeves.

“Now,” the king said, his eyes closed again. “If you don’t mind.” And he gestured vaguely.

Balo understood and got up immediately. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said bowing again. The king did not reply.

The old servant had been making his way from the screen by the door ever since the king had gestured. But as Balo stood up from his bow, he saw that Éna Lí had shooed him away and was coming to escort him herself.

With a smile she led him from the king’s bedchamber. And the smile did not leave her face even as they made their way through the chilly corridors of the king’s residence.

A few steps from the front door, she stopped suddenly and turned around.

Not for the first time, Balo was struck by her beauty. There was a strangeness to it, as always. In the same way a porcelain figure is strange compared to a living person. Her large eyes shone in the dimly lit hallway as she took a few steps closer to Balo. He was aware, of course, that Éna Lí was a shade taller than him.

Extending her hands, she reached for his, which were clasped together inside the sleeves of his golt. He attempted to remain still, but she was stronger that he would have expected and pulled his hands from where they were tucked, exposing them to the cold of the corridor. With her own fair hands, she grasped his. To anyone else looking upon them, this scene might have seemed affectionate, or at least familial. But Éna Lí’s fair fingers were as cold and smooth as marble, and they held Balo’s hands in an iron grip. Glancing at her wrists, he was surprised to see a small bandage on the back of one of her hands.

The sight of an imperfection on the porcelain surface of the beautiful servant was so distracting to him that he started when she slid one of her cold hands into his left sleeve. With a smile, she pulled out the king’s message.

“My lord Balo,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “You seem to have dropped this.”

As she spoke, she cracked the king’s seal and unfolded the page. Her eyes left Balo’s face just long enough for her to read the contents of the king’s message.

Her smile grew as she refolded the page. It became a low, musical laugh as she reached again for Balo’s sleeve and tucked the paper back inside. Still laughing, she bowed to him and continued to escort him to the front door of the king’s residence.

The moon was still tucked behind a thin smear of cloud cover when Balo Sonen’s carriage arrived at the gates of his estate.

He had been tired and anxious when the king — or Éna Lí — had summoned him to the Palace, and neither condition had improved on the return journey. A decade of planning was about to be undone by the lunatic whims of one woman. He would have to find a way to speak to her, to understand her mad scheming. Or else everything he had done would be ruined by her. He needed to find a way to bend her to his will. With her fine silk shoe on the throat of the king himself, there was little he could do to threaten her.

If he could be the one to find the little prince, the king’s last heir, that would be enough. If he could have the crown prince in his hands, he could control the king far more effectively than Éna Lí ever could. Perhaps he could even remove Éna Lí. And once the king died and the crown prince took the throne…

The Sonen estate was one of the largest in Ŏna Soth. Balo and his wife occupied the primary residence, and his son and his wife had a separate residence on the other side of a broad courtyard filled with young maple trees. A small crowd of servants was tending to the trees as Balo came in. The fast-approaching winter was threatening their tender roots and so they had to be carefully protected. He paused for a moment watching them tent each tree in a wrapping of white cloth. The courtyard began to look like it was made of porcelain clouds.

“My lord,” spoke a timid voice.

Balo turned and saw his wife’s maid. A woman of about fifty, she had been serving Balo’s wife since the two had married some thirty years ago. A loyal woman, if a little dull.

“What is it?”

“My lady has had a difficult day, my lord, and has asked me to tell you that she would like to see you when you are able.”

Balo tucked his hands back into his sleeves and felt the king’s folded message.

He said, “I do not have time tonight.” And he dismissed her.

But she did not move.

“What now?”

“My lord,” she said, her voice shaking a little. “My lady cannot sleep unless you visit her. I fear—”

“Did you not hear me? I said I do not have time.” His voice had risen a little and so even the servants in the courtyard had paused their labor.

The aged maid gave a tremulous apology and then left. Were it not for his wife’s dependence on the creature, he would have her dismissed tonight. Few things irritated him more than when his orders were questioned.

Or his plans ignored.

Turning from the courtyard, he crossed the porch of his residence and entered at a small side door that led to his study. This little door bypassed the rooms where his wife lay. The sickness that now occupied her frail body was likely to be her last, and he didn’t have the time to spend nursing her final days.

It wasn’t until he stepped out of his shoes and closed the little swinging door behind him that he realized that his study was not empty. Standing there near the roaring tile stove in the center of the room was Balo’s son.

“Father,” Ban Lo said, turning from the stove. He offered his father a deep bow.

Balo’s son had been a quiet child, so much so that for several years Balo had feared that the boy was slow. However, as he grew, he came to find that Ban Lo had merely inherited his mother’s timidity. His studies had been sufficient and he had managed to make himself likable to many among the sons of the other important ministers. But as he became a man, Ban Lo’s sense of careful timidity had never waned as Balo had hoped it would.

Though taller than his father, Ban Lo almost always stood with his back bent a little, as if afraid of towering over him. Balo had once had a servant beat the boy bloody across the shoulders in an effort to curtail this habit. To some degree it had worked, but he still tended always to bend a little in his father’s company. As he did so, the shadows hid his face, which was very like his mother’s, as was his short brown hair, which shone gold in the lantern light.

He stood up from his bow as Balo walked across the room to a tray on his desk where a steaming carafe of coffee had been placed next to a small porcelain cup.

“What are you doing here?” Balo asked as he poured himself coffee.

Ban Lo turned, but remained bent a little. “I had heard—”

“Stand up straight, damn you.”

Ban Lo flinched and straightened his back. He began again. “I had heard that you were summoned to the Palace. I thought—”

“Yes, Ban Lo. I was summoned to the Palace. If it had concerned you, you would have been included in the summons.”

“I just thought if I could help—”

“Help?” Balo scoffed. “If you wanted to help me perhaps you could explain to me why that pitiful wife of yours still hasn’t borne a child.”

Ban Lo said nothing, as his father had expected. Balo knew that his son was not fond of his wife. Nă Nen had not been Ban Lo’s desired choice. For years he had had eyes only for In Na Tolen, the prime minister’s daughter. But a marriage to Nă Nen had allowed Balo to absorb the wealth of her dying House. Indulging Ban Lo’s lovesick childishness would not help the boy become a man, he knew. But if Ban Lo didn’t produce an heir both he and his useless wife were of little value to Balo’s larger plans.

“You should go back,” Balo said, sitting at his desk. “We both have to go to the Palace tomorrow.”

“I want to help you, father,” Ban Lo said. “Let me help you look for the prince. If we spoke to the Sonen Housemaster—”

“Don’t waste your time with that old fool. The Sonen House will be no more in less than a decade.”

Ban Lo set his jaw. “Should we not bring the rest of the House into our plans? Perhaps we should be helping the rest of Sonen—”

“The Sonen House has nothing to do with me or with you. And you would do well to remember it. We are not our House, Ban Lo. It is little more than a name. No, my boy, you and I will forge our own path, free of the shackles of House.” He took out the king’s message and unfolded it. Ban Lo watched with shining eyes. “And anyway, I have no need of their help.” With a thin smile he added, “I have the king.”

Holding out the paper to Ban Lo, he said, “You know what to do with this.”

His son rushed eagerly to his father and took the paper from him. With a bow, he hurried from the room, closing the little door behind him.

As always, he was like a child, or a puppy. All he needed was a scrap and he would move mountains to please his father. In this respect, he was precisely the son Balo had hoped he would be: obedient, subservient, and eternally devoted. Withholding paternal affection was the only sure way to bring about such a result in a man.

Balo sipped his coffee and spent a moment imagining his success. He imagined ruling over the crown prince, the rest of the ministers bowing to him, the rest of the capital fearing him.

As his thoughts slowed and he began to consider going to bed, a servant emerged, bringing with him the night’s bitter cold. A shiver slid through Balo and he glanced up at the bowing man and the open door behind him.

“My lord,” the servant said, standing from his bow. “We watched Kío En Tolen the entire afternoon, but he did not move from the king’s stair. And when he left, his carriage went straight to his estate.”

Balo’s mind quickened again. He considered this report for a moment. The prime minister had not been there to see the king, that much was certain. Kío En would not allow himself to take such a humiliating blow when he knew it would not work. Balo turned to the servant and said, “Do whatever you must, but do it quietly. Find out what he was really doing in the Palace.”

The servant bowed and turned to leave, but Balo called him back. “My lord?” he asked.

“Whatever you do, make sure the Palace House does not find out.”

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Chapter Forty-Eight

The capital, Ŏna Soth

The afternoon had already slipped soundlessly into evening by the time Kío En Tolen was making his way to the narrow stone avenue that led to the Palace gates.

Six hours of anxious waiting and he was nearly there. He had no reason to be nervous, of course. There was no reason to think that anyone would suspect his true purpose here today.

For almost half the day he had stood upon the great stone stairs to the king’s Hall requesting an audience with King Mŭ So, who had not spoken to him in days. He had known that this request would be denied. He had known that this entire ordeal would be a blow to his reputation within the court. The other ministers would whisper behind his back. Some would speculate about the decline of his power.

But while he was standing in the bitter cold, buffeted by a chill winter wind, his attendant Nălo was busy elsewhere in the Palace.

Kío En had known that his presence — the presence of the king’s Oak Hand — would attract attention from everyone in the Palace. And indeed, standing in a slight bow upon the king’s staircase he had seen waves of curious onlookers come to see for themselves the humbling of the Prime Minister.

And so Nălo had the freedom to move throughout the other parts of the Palace grounds. Until, as the moon had begun to climb into the winter blue evening sky, he had appeared at Kío En’s elbow. With a whisper to confirm his success, he also presented the image of a loyal attendant urging his master to come away for the night.

Kío En had made a show of hesitating. And then, offering a deep bow to the king’s Hall and the king’s person, he turned and left with Nălo.

He sat now on the bench inside the carriage, his aching legs throbbing, his back a knot of pain. But he could not relax, not yet. His heart had been hammering in his chest all afternoon. He had skipped two meals to stand upon the king’s stair and was beginning to feel faint.

Clutching his cloak he began to sway slowly back and forth, humming a lullaby under his breath. It was an old habit from the years of his wife’s long illness. She had only been able to rest when he had held her in his arms and sang softly to her, rocking her gently to lull her to sleep. And then he would remain that way until morning, praying to Ethádéoth1 that she wouldn’t wake crying out in pain as she usually did.

The swaying calmed him, he knew. It also distracted him. Thinking of his wife sheltered his mind from the fear that was crowding his mind. He needed to remain calm. He was almost there.

Just as he was beginning to feel his mind settle, the carriage came to an abrupt stop.

Nălo pushed aside the curtain and said, “My lord, there is—”

“Who is this, then?” came a voice from out of sight. Kío En knew by the sound of armor that it was one of the Palace swords who guarded the exterior gate. He tensed and clutched his knees until his arms trembled.

“This is my lord Kío En Tolen,” Nălo answered, his voice stern, but even. “The Prime Minister.”

“At this hour?”

Nălo did not answer. Kío En heard footsteps as the guard approached.

“It is irregular, is it not?” he said. “We’ve not been told to expect the Prime Minister.” The curtain rustled as if disturbed by a hand as he said, “Perhaps I’ll just—”

“How dare you,” Nălo reprimanded, his voice louder. “This is the carriage of the king’s Oak Hand.”

“If you would just allow me to see for myself—”

“What gives you the right to request such a thing?”

“I was told that the Prime Minister would not be in the Palace today. It is my duty to check—”

The guard stopped talking, but not because Nălo had interrupted him. Kío En heard then the sound of another carriage behind his own. Shifting on his seat, he pushed the back shade open an inch or two and peered out to the narrow avenue.

Arriving just behind him was the open carriage which the king had provided for the use of his brother-in-law, Bo Han Lăsoth. The Lăsoth Housemaster sat upon the bench behind the driver together with another member of his House, the same Kío En had seen him with the last time they had encountered each other in the Palace. Ŏvor, he believed his name was, the husband of Bo Han’s cousin.

As his carriage came to a stop, Bo Han Lăsoth surveyed the situation before him. He saw Kío En’s attendant, Nălo, guarding access to his master while one of the Palace guards attempted to check the interior of the Oak Hand’s carriage. He saw that the Palace guard appeared to be behaving in a way that was bolder than was appropriate for the Palace House. Which was not entirely irregular these days, but Nălo seemed to be protecting more than just his master.

Sitting where he was, just behind the Prime Minister’s carriage, he saw when Kío En pushed open the shade. For the length of a breath the two exchanged a look, and Bo Han understood. Leaning over, he whispered something to the young man by his side.

Immediately, Ŏvor stood. “What is this?” he demanded.

The Palace guard hurried over. “My lord Bo Han Lăs—”

“My lord has just finished meeting with the king. It is quite late and he has important matters to attend to. Will you not allow anyone to leave the Palace? Who has given this order?”

“No, no, my lord, there is no order—”

“What then? Whoever this is in front, tell him to stop idling here and move along.”

The guard bowed and jogged back to open the gate. His complexion was red and his jaw set in a look of perturbed irritation. Kío En wondered if he was annoyed at being reprimanded by Ŏvor Lăsoth, or if he had some other reason to be upset. In either case, the display was a success and soon the Prime Minister’s carriage was again moving.

As he at last reached the road outside the Palace, he turned again and looked through the back window.

Bo Han Lăsoth had dismounted the open carriage together with Ŏvor, and was walking to his own, which was waiting for him on the road outside the Palace gate. Turning, he saw Kío En and offered a slight nod of his head. Kío En wondered how much he knew. Considering that it was Bo Han Lăsoth, there was a very good chance he knew everything.

In that case Bo Han had helped him even though he knew the danger of what he was doing. Did that mean the Lăsoth Housemaster could be an ally?

No, it was too early to consider such things.

Kío En rested his hands gently upon the cushioned bench. It frightened him to think in such terms as “allies” and “enemies”. It made him think that a war might be coming.

In Na greeted him at the door of their estate. But in his nervous condition, Kío En barely felt glad to see her. His anxiety would not be assuaged until they were inside the walls with all the doors closed and locked. Nălo had gone to check the outskirts of the estate while he closed the gates and assigned swords to watch it closely. Kío En was beginning to wonder if it would be too suspicious to suddenly increase his guards.

But then he shook his head. It didn’t matter. It only mattered that the estate was protected. Especially now.

In Na stood just inside the wide open door, which glowed like a framed slice of candlelight at the top of the porch stair. She wore the yellow she always favored, and was wrapped in a white wool cloak. Her black hair, bound in an intricate knot of braids, was covered by the cloak’s fur-lined hood. A little behind her stood her maid, also in a cloak, her hands clasped before her. Every day when Kío En returned from the Palace, In Na greeted him in this way. She was the firm barrier between the frigid, tense world of the king’s court, and the warmth inside his estate, warmth that was fueled by his fair daughter.

Kío En stood at the bottom of the porch stairs and looked up at her. She was confused that he was not coming up. In Na stepped through the little barrier, crossing the glowing threshold from the warm interior to the black porch.

“Father?” she asked, a frown upon her face. “What is—?”

Wait, child,” he said to her. “Wait here a moment.”

Nălo returned and offered Kío En a nod. Then they went back to the carriage. Besides the two of them, and In Na and her maid, the porch of the estate was otherwise free of life; all had been sent to various tasks by Nălo upon their arrival.

They did not need a lantern, there was light enough pouring from the open door where In Na stood waiting and watching.

Nălo opened the back of the carriage and deftly removed a panel from the underside. This exposed a latch at the back corner of the carriage body. Lifting it, he revealed a compartment just beneath the interior bench. Normally intended for hiding valuables, the space was now filled by the shivering limbs of a young man.

“You can come out, my boy,” Kío En whispered.

“I think my legs have fallen asleep,” came the muffled reply.

Kío En motioned to Nălo and then stood back. “Please forgive us,” he said to the carriage’s cramped occupant while Nălo roughly pulled him out of the tiny space by his legs. “We need to get you inside as quickly as possible.”

In Na watched, eyes wide with wonder, as a young man emerged from the impossibly small space and then leaned against her father. Again, she came out onto the porch, but hesitated before descending the stairs. When the young man’s legs gave out under him, she hurried to her father’s side. Her maid came to stand upon the porch, but seemed uncertain how to help in this strange situation.

“I told you to wait inside,” Kío En whispered sternly.

“Let me help you,” she replied. She could plainly see that whoever this young stranger was, her father had brought him here in secret, a secret he was even keeping from the rest of the household.

The young man’s arms were thin, pale, and covered in smears of dirt. He smelled like he hadn’t bathed in days and his clothes were so worn and dirt-crusted that it was impossible to say what color they were supposed to be. She couldn’t see his face, as his long hair was tangled and unkempt. When she grasped his arm to support him, she was shocked by how cold he was. Without a moment’s hesitation, she untied her cloak and pulled it from her shoulders.

“My lady,” her maid said, arms outstretched.

“Never mind,” In Na replied as she wrapped the young man in the fine white wool.

As they made their way up the stairs, Kío En said to Nălo — who had finished reassembling the carriage, “Prepare a bath as you would for me. Find him some of my clothes.”

“Nothing of yours will fit him, father,” In Na said. “Look, he’s half your size. I will get him something of Mon Soma’s.”

Kío En glanced at her. He had not heard his daughter mention her dead husband by name since his funeral last year.

“He will also need food,” she went on. “I will prepare something myself.”

Kío En nodded, but said nothing. As they made their way inside he found himself glad to have the firm, domestic command of his daughter.

While they waited for the young man to bathe and dress himself, Kío En watched In Na prepare a simple meal. But first she poured her father a little hot coffee, as if she had perceived that he was unlikely to sleep anytime soon.

“I had wondered why you went unbidden to the Palace,” she murmured.

He didn’t answer. His mind was a storm of thoughts and worries and he needed to calm himself if he was to understand the right way to navigate his current situation.

Kío En’s search of the Palace grounds for Lŭ Lin’s “missing spoon” had been difficult, to say the least. He had told himself, when they had set about searching, that he was doing so for her and also to serve the king. This wasn’t enough to ease his anxiety, however. Matters were already tense in the king’s court. Smuggling someone out of the Palace was a risk he should not have taken.

But according to Lŭ Lin, it would help her and it would help the king. Kío En heaved a shaking sigh and gulped the last of his coffee. In Na glanced at him, one brow raised, then she poured him a little more.

It had been Nălo who had overheard the clue they had needed to find him, this missing spoon. A pair of Palace maids had been whispering to each other about a plate of chicken meant for the king that had disappeared after a careless servant girl had set it down on her way across the Palace grounds. The plate had not been found, so it was assumed that the child had absconded with the feast herself and then discarded the plate. Naturally, she had been punished. The maids had whispered that the child had not been seen for more than two days, a detail that would have troubled Kío En, had he had the time to consider it.

Nălo had gone to that part of the Palace and found it to be almost entirely abandoned. The servant girl had been taking a shortcut across the narrow Green Way that led to the Spring Courtyard, a place that was, by Éna Lí’s order, absolutely off-limits to any within the Palace. Under cover of darkness, Nălo had found a small opening in the wall around the nearby residence of the queen consort. Once inside, he had found a small nest of rags and old cloth surrounded by scraps of stolen food. A young man — Lŭ Lin’s missing spoon — had been hiding there as well, of course. Nălo had seen him, but had not let on that he had. Instead he had placed an orange on the floor near the nest, wrapped in a handkerchief embroidered with the oak branches of the Prime Minister, hoping it would be message enough.

Tonight, when Nălo had gone back again, the young man, it seemed, had decided to trust him and so had presented himself to him in a moment of bold desperation. Perhaps it was nothing more than Kío En’s connection to the Grand Steward that had led the young man to make that decision.

Nălo hadn’t given him any time to tell him his name or who he was. He packed him into the hidden compartment in the Prime Minister’s carriage before the patrols could circle back around. And, thus hidden, he was smuggled out of the Palace.

His very presence in his estate frightened Kío En, if only because it confirmed the bulk of his suspicions after speaking to his sister-in-law.

The Four Little Palaces had been attacked.

Three of the four little princes were dead.

And there was something very wrong inside the Palace. Kío En began to sweat and used a silk handkerchief to mop his brow.

“Are you alright, father?” In Na asked as she spooned a bit of pork stew into a bowl. “Would you like something to eat?”

“No, my child,” he replied. In truth, he was still too nervous to eat. It was likely he wouldn’t be able to keep anything in his stomach.

When she was done arranging the simple meal, he carried the tray of dishes for her into his study, where he had asked Nălo to bring the young man when he was dressed. In Na followed him, and for a moment he considered telling her to go to bed. But he didn’t like to keep things from her, and, in truth, she would be more responsible than him for keeping the young man hidden in their estate. It would be good for her to know. She was shrewd and careful, and, of course, the one person he trusted most in this world.

At last Nălo brought their young guest into Kío En’s enclosed study. Bowing, Nălo gestured to In Na’s maid. Then they both left to wait in the corridor outside the study.

Kío En had fed the little blue stove and so the room was quite warm, despite the pervading chill of the deepening night. The simple meal had been placed on the table near the desk where Kío En sat sipping his coffee.

In Na started when she saw the young man standing there in the shadows outside the glow of the lanterns and the roaring stove. Kío En saw it and felt a pang of sorrow. The young man was wearing a maroon golt of simple wool embroidered all over with tiny oak leaves, In Na’s handiwork. She had made the golt for her husband. Mon Soma had been a handsome young man and his clothes fitted the stranger perfectly. For a fraction of an instant, as the young man stood in the shadows with his should-length black hair loose, as Mon Soma had worn his, he almost looked like him.

Mon Soma’s death last year in a riding accident outside the city had been a heavy blow to In Na, who had, in her grief, miscarried. On that day, when Kío En had feared that he would lose both his daughter and his son-in-law, he wondered if he was being punished for his own sins. After all, In Na had only been able to marry Mon Soma because Kío En had spared her from a marriage into the Sonen House.

That conniving snake Balo Sonen had tried to arrange for In Na to marry his son, Ban Lo, a man with such a look of ice and venom in his eyes that Kío En would have sooner cut off his own arms and legs than let his daughter marry him.

Some time before, Balo, in the course of one of his bolder schemes, had used his position in Kío En’s service to arrange the destruction of the small Kin Lí House near the Ŭthol Na border. It had been suspected that Kin Lí had been guilty of smuggling, but Balo had wanted to use this knowledge not to bring them to justice, but rather to leverage the Kin Lí Housemaster for all his assets, including his estates, which Balo had coveted for some time.

But he hadn’t been sure how to arrange this in a way that would keep his hands clean. Kío En, meanwhile, had found out about this scheme quite by accident, and so he had made a plan of his own.

He had suggested to Balo Sonen to arrange for his son Ban Lo to marry the Kin Lí Housemaster’s daughter, Nă Nen2. In this way he could legitimately receive the Kin Lí assets without, legally speaking, doing anything untoward. Balo had seen through Kío En’s suggestion, of course, and had known that he was merely trying to spare his daughter from a marriage outside their House, and to Ban Lo, of all men. But, as Kío En had predicted, he had desired the Kin Lí assets more than he had a marriage connection to Kío En. Moreover, Kío En had suggested to Balo that if he didn’t accept his plan then he would inform the king of his scheming. More than anything, Balo always sought the approval of the king.

Kío En’s plan had worked. In Na had been spared a marriage into Balo’s House and with Balo’s son. And Ban Lo had gained a beautiful bride who brought with her the wealth of her father. The rest of the Kin Lí House had been ruined and impoverished. The last Kío En had heard, few of them remained. Nă Nen’s father had killed himself in shame shortly after the wedding. Whereupon the Kin Lí’s swords had been forced to pledge themselves to Balo or be made Houseless. This last detail was not known to many.

Not a day passed when Kío En didn’t think himself unworthy of his position because of what he had helped Balo to do. But what else could he have done? He would do anything to protect In Na.

And yet, despite all of that, she had still been forced to endure the greatest double grief a woman could know: the loss of both her husband and her unborn child.

Watching In Na’s fair face pale at the sight of the stranger wearing her dead husband’s golt filled Kío En with grief and shame.

The young man saw the way she was looking at his clothes and he bowed. “Thank you, my lady,” he said. “They are very fine.”

She collected herself and smiled at him warmly. Then, motioning to the dishes upon the table, she said, “Please, eat.”

He bowed and then sat upon the cushion they had prepared for him. With another bow, he reached for the spoon and began to eat the stew. His hands trembled so much he was barely able to hold his bowl.

“My boy,” Kío En said gently, after watching the young man eat for some time in silence. “Are you who I think you are?”

The man paused and then put down his spoon. He positioned himself so that he was facing Kío En directly and then placed his hand on his chest and bowed deeply. “I am Mŏ Rin Hŏnol3.”

It was as he had assumed. “Palace House?” Kío En said, rubbing his chin. “Then you are…?”

“I am— I was a servant in the Spring Courtyard. I served in the Four Little Palaces.”

In Na turned and looked upon her father with wide eyes. The laws of the king stated that any servant who fled the Spring Courtyard was to be executed. And yet here one was, sitting in her father’s study.

But she, of course, did not know what Kío En knew.

“Is it true, then?” Kío En asked him. “Was the Spring Courtyard attacked?”

In Na put her hand on her chest, but maintained her composure. Mŏ Rin took a bite of his stew in an effort to calm himself before answering. Kío En was surprised to see that his eyes were wet with tears.

“Yes,” he answered at last, through a mouthful of food.

“And the four little princes—?”

“Three are dead.”

Kío En took a steadying breath. The coffee he was drinking seemed to be worsening his tension, and this conversation, and the young servant in his study, were beginning to make him feel very afraid. “You know this?” he asked, breathlessly.

“I know very little of what happened that night. I know only what I saw when it was finished. And that was all four little palaces burning and the dead beyond number.”

“But the three princes—”

“I saw them with my own eyes. My own master and two others.”

Kío En’s heart was pounding. He absently began to sway a little on his chair. With his eyes closed, he asked, “How did you survive this terrible attack?”

“I was not in any of the four Little Palaces at the time that it happened.”

“Oh?” Kío En opened his eyes. “Why not?”

“Because.” He paused and ran his fist up and down his thigh. At last he looked up and said, “Because I was awaiting execution.”

This was familiar to him, he remembered hearing of it. Kío En thought for a moment. Then, “You are the servant who attempted to flee the Spring Courtyard?”

Mŏ Rin shook his head. “I was not trying to flee the Courtyard.” Then he paused and frowned. “Though I suppose it makes sense that they would have said that.”

Kío En shook his head. The sharpness of his nervous tension combined with his exhaustion was making it difficult to think. “I am confused,” he said. “Are you or are you not the servant who was caught that night?”

Mŏ Rin bowed and answered, “Yes, I am.”

“But you weren’t fleeing the Spring Courtyard?”

“No, my lord.”

“What were you doing, then?”

“I was…” he paused and swallowed, looking a shade paler. “I was trying to pass a message from my prince to the crown prince.”

“What message?” Kío En asked. Then he stood up from his desk so quickly that both In Na and Mŏ Rin flinched. “No, no,” he said. “No, don’t tell me, I don’t wish to know. It is dangerous enough to have you here. I do not wish to know.”

Mŏ Rin bowed deeply, his forehead almost touching the floor. “I know you have taken a great risk bringing me here. I can never repay you. I promise you that I will do nothing to put your estate in danger.”

“I certainly hope not,” Kío En replied coldly.

“Father,” In Na murmured.

But Kío En said to her, pointing at the young man, “He’s right. We have taken an immense risk bringing him here. The entire Spring Courtyard was—”

He stopped then and looked at Mŏ Rin. A thought had suddenly occurred to him. “This message you were supposed to deliver, did anyone else know of it?”

Mŏ Rin thought for a moment. “Perhaps,” he said. But Kío En silenced him with a wave of his hand just as he was about to elaborate.

He began to pace back and forth in front of the stove. In Na and Mŏ Rin watched him, waiting.

It was possible that his nerves and the uncoiling tension of the entire terrible day were coloring his tired mind, but if he was right, the attack on the Spring Courtyard had been a great deal more complicated than he had originally assumed. In that moment he suddenly wondered if Lŭ Lin knew this as well. Was it possible that the assassination of the four little princes had not been an assassination at all?

He paused and looked at the young servant eating bread at the table in his study. What if this young man…?

But no, that was absurd. Who would risk attacking the Spring Courtyard just for one little servant? That was impossible.

“This is no good,” he said at last. “I am too tired to think. For now, you will stay here. You will do exactly as she says,” he pointed to In Na, “and you will speak to no one and be seen by no one. You do not exist, do you understand?”

Mŏ Rin nodded and then bowed. “Yes, my lord.”

“Very good. Now finish your food and sleep. We will talk about what to do with you in the morning.”

The king wrapped his cloak tighter around his shoulders. When he breathed upon his cupped hands, his breath came in a thick cloud of white fog. The Inner Room of the king’s residence was the coldest place in the Palace. Unlike other Inner Rooms in more ordinary homes, this was also a mausoleum.

The vast, underground place — which rested just beneath the king’s residence — was filled with tombs carved from white stone. Simple lanterns flickered from where they were hung near the ceiling, casting amber light over dark stone walls and a dark stone floor.

Though the tombs were simple and unadorned, each was marked with a small figure on a finely wrought stone pedestal. These figures, carved from wood, represented the occupants of their respective tombs. Unpainted, according to the tolibin way, they were nevertheless exquisitely made.

The king walked the narrow aisle between the two facing rows of tombs and wooden figures. Each pedestal bore a placard with the name and title of the deceased, but King Mŭ So had walked through his Inner Room so many times in the last years that he no longer needed to be reminded who rested in each stone box.

After paying wordless respects to his Sona ancestors, he went to the far end of the row and found the three newest tombs: his wife, his daughter, and his youngest son. It was only here that he could be with his family. Especially with his one surviving son locked away in the Spring Courtyard.

Of course, So Ga was not in the Spring Courtyard, not anymore. He was somewhere in the world, running for his life, hunted, afraid.

Mŭ So touched the cheek of his wife’s wooden figure.

“I have failed you,” he murmured. Then, turning to his daughter and son, he added, “You must watch over your brother, for he is alone in the world and likely to join you soon.”

These words surprised him and filled him with pain. Bending over his wife’s tomb, he struggled to hold back his tears.

Even if So Ga somehow managed to survive, he would return to a Palace that was as hostile and dangerous as the world beyond these walls. Perhaps even more so. Would it be better if he remained lost?

Would it be better if he did join his brother and sister soon? This thought filled the king with shame, and he placed his head on his wife’s tomb while silently begging her forgiveness.

“Here you are.”

The voice broke against him like a wave of freezing ocean water. He did not turn as Éna Lí came to invade the peace of the Inner Room.

With his back to her, he said, “Get out.”

She laughed. “Did your meeting with your brother-in-law not cheer you? Did he have no news for you this time about the prince? I am sure you must be most concerned.”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. Her creamy face glowed in the lantern light and her smile bared perfect white teeth. She sickened him.

“You will be pleased to know,” she said, “that pathetic little creature Kío En finally left. He put on quite an embarrassing show. For a moment I thought he might actually collapse there upon the stairs.”

“If you keep refusing him, the rest of the ministers will begin to wonder why.”

“They know why. You are angry with Lŭ Lin, so why would you want to see her brother-in-law?”

“That will not be enough for much longer.”

She smiled sweetly. “That isn’t something you need to worry about.”

He couldn’t look at her any longer. The perfect, porcelain curves of her face filled him with a hatred so intense it pulled the life from him.

“Where have you put the bodies of the other three princes?” he asked her, turning back to his wife’s tomb.

“They have been disposed of.”

He struggled to conceal his shock. “You did not bury them? You did not even give them that?”

“Have you forgotten? Nothing happened to the Spring Courtyard. So why would there be funerals? I cannot bury princes who aren’t dead.” She moved closer to him, the silk of her black golt swishing in the cold-thickened silence. “You wanted to check them, didn’t you? Make sure your real son wasn’t among them. You must know it doesn’t matter. Whoever he is, if he isn’t dead already, he will be soon. You will see.”

He turned to her and opened his mouth. He wanted to ask her why. Why had she had the little princes killed and the Spring Courtyard burned? Why would she remove the king’s only remaining heir? Without the crown prince, the king’s power was greatly diminished. If he was overthrown, she would lose her control inside the Palace. She must know that.

In the end, he decided not to say anything. She would never give him an answer, anyway. And he still wasn’t entirely sure she had been the one to attack the princes. For years she had done everything she could to keep him isolated and alone. Information was difficult to obtain and she had a way of cutting off his access to anyone who might help him. She owned him. He knew this. He had known it for years. But why? Had she done all this just to take control of the Palace House?

Éna Lí reached out a hand to touch the wooden figure of the Queen Consort.

“Don’t!” Mŭ So snapped. He was surprised when she flinched. But then she laughed.

“You surprised me.” And she flicked the back of her fingernail across the queen’s wooden face. He felt rage rise up in him again, but just as it did, his chest heaved and he leaned against his wife’s tomb, exhausted. She watched him, an amused smile on her beautiful face.

Another one of her lifeless little maids appeared at the mouth of the Inner Room. She carried a tray holding a single clay cup.

“Ah,” Éna Lí said. “Your medicine, Your Majesty.”

He watched her as she took the tray from the girl and brought it to him. Though she held it out to him, he did not move.

“Now, now,” she said, her voice a sweet, honey rhythm that slipped into him and set his teeth on edge. “You cannot refuse your medicine like a child.”

Medicine.

How many years had she been weakening him with her concoction? If he stopped taking it today would he even recover? Surely the poison had already done its damage. And anyway, the longer he appeased her, the longer he would be able to help his son.

He snatched the cup off the tray and drank its bitter contents in two gulps. Then he tossed the cup back at her. Though she tried to catch it, it clattered onto the stone floor where it shattered. For only an instant, she looked annoyed. He felt a childish sense of satisfaction at that.

Bending, she picked up the larger pieces of the broken cup and placed them upon the tray. Then she carried it back to the girl, who received it with a trembling bow and quickly fled. As she did so, Éna Lí’s aged pet, the wretched servant Lonol appeared. He bowed to her and whispered something the king could not hear. Then he bowed again and left.

Éna Lí turned. “Your Majesty,” she said to him. “You have a visitor.”

“It is late. I wish to sleep.”

“Nonsense,” she replied. “You will want to see this visitor, I think.”

“Who is it?”

“It is Balo Sonen.”

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