Chapter Fifty-Two

The Koda House

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

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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