To help with the large cast of characters,
I have put together a spoiler-free Dramatis Personae
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 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 the 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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