Chapter Fifty-Seven

Winter Is Always Cruel

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

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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