Chapter Thirty-three

The journey resumes...

The White Inn

The morning was unseasonably warm. Though the dense, glutted expanse of forest on either side of the Prince Road had long since shifted in hue from green to brown, the breeze through the open windows of the White Inn was almost as warm as the wafting air from an open stove.

So Ga was glad for it. The building cold had always been a danger to his health, and his household had protected him from nothing as carefully as they had protected him from the cold winds of winter, which could cut through the thin muscles on his chest and cause his lungs to spasm. It would be easier to make the journey to Osa Gate if they were not constantly hindered by his health.

And though So Ga felt better than he had since he had been forced to flee the Spring Courtyard, he found himself worrying for Min La.

“You should sleep,” So Ga had said to him last night. “We have not seen them for a whole day now. I think it would be acceptable to rest a little.”

When Min La said nothing, So Ga had added, “You will be capable of very little if you do not rest.”

In the end, So Ga wasn’t sure if Min La ever did sleep. He was already bringing in breakfast when he woke.

While So Ga watched, Min La packed their bags with supplies he’d procured from the monks. Among which was more food than they could possibly have needed. So Ga suspected that was an old habit he had developed over the years spent living meal to meal. He found himself wondering what Min La would do after they reached Osa Gate. Did he really intend to begin his own House? He had never heard of such a thing in these times. Houses had always emerged organically, built around large families, their retainers and their families, and their land. Would any even join with him in this, a Houseless man? So Ga had never heard of any part of Láokoth that did not shun the Houseless.

Although, Min La was not, properly speaking “Houseless”. If So Ga had heard Lin Jenin correctly last night, he was the furthest thing from Houseless.

He had been shocked, but only for a moment. After the initial surprise had faded, it seemed to him that it was obvious. It wasn’t obvious, of course. He wasn’t sure why he thought that. Min La hid himself well. But the more he thought about it, the more it seemed like the most natural thing in the world, that the last remnant of Nŭnon should happen to be the one who would help him return to the Palace.

If it was true, what the merchant had whispered at the bottom of the stairs, Min La was the last of one of the most important, respected Houses in the history of Láokoth. Perhaps it was right that he be the founder of a new House. Perhaps it was good that a single line, at least, of the Nŭnon blood had survived.

So Ga did not have the time nor the energy to renew his thoughts about the Nŭnon House’s innocence. The identity and motivation of the assassins nine years ago had no bearing on his current situation. Still, the consideration needled at him ceaselessly as he made his morning devotions, as he fastened the waist band of his golt, as he pulled on his leather shoes, as he thoughtfully ate the dish of potatoes and pork that Min La had brought to him together with a carafe of coffee.

So Ga noticed that this knowledge seemed to widen the chasm between them. With this new view of Min La, So Ga felt that he understood him and his motivations even less than before.

If Min La was Nŭnon, with him being Sona, should not Min La hate him? Should he not wish him dead, more than any other in Láokoth? Indeed, Min La had more cause than the mercenaries to kill him. So Ga’s father, after all, had ordered the execution of his entire House. And yet he had saved his life in the woods even after he had known who he was. Why would a Nŭnon save a Sona? Why did he not hate him? There was no basis for reasonable cooperation between a Sona and a Nŭnon, much less alliance. They were enemies, blood enemies.

The thought occurred to him that this had been the truth that Sen Rin had divined as he was dying, that this random Houseless beggar was a remnant of Nŭnon. And it was because of this fact that he had chosen to trust him. What had Sen Rin seen that So Ga could not?

Maybe he had misheard. Or maybe Lin Jenin had been mistaken. But Min La’s reaction last night suggested to So Ga that the merchant had not been wrong. Min La was Nŭnon. And now So Ga had to determine what that meant.

Min La settled the matter with Lin Jenin before So Ga came down to the courtyard. There was very little that was necessary, of course. Min La had realized early this morning, when he had informed the merchant that he and his charge would not be joining them for the rest of their journey, that Lin Jenin had been hoping to be rid of them. He suspected that Lin Jenin harbored some deep hatred for him — no doubt due to his identity — that made him unwilling to tolerate his company. As it was, Min La was thankful that Lin Jenin had chosen not to report him or spread any rumors regarding the secret he had guessed. And Lin Jenin was thankful that Min La had removed himself from his caravan without resistance.

In the end, they were both satisfied to be rid of each other. So Ga had seemed to accept Min La’s explanation easily enough, now it was just a matter of finding new transport.

It was this that Min La was considering as he stood in the White Inn’s broad courtyard watching the merchant caravan make its slow departure. And it was at that moment that he was joined by a familiar face.

“You will not resume your journey today?” Nŏl asked genially. He stood next to him with his hands clasped behind his back, his sword hooked in the wide brocade sash that bound his golt. The young Ŏklo lord’s short hair was tucked under a thick woven cap that matched his fine sash. Hino Son was nearby inspecting their horses and carriage, and chatting with their aged driver. The two were evidently preparing for their own departure. Nŏl added, “I hope your charge’s health has not taken a turn?”

Min La smiled. “Not everyone,” he said quietly, “is eager to travel with those from Hin Dan.”

Nŏl’s brow darkened. He nodded once and murmured, “I see.”

Hino Son strode over to join them, surprise upon his face when he saw Min La still at the inn even though the caravan had departed. In a brief whisper, Nŏl explained.

Hino Son nodded knowingly, his face creased with concern. He said, “You shouldn’t travel just the two of you, my friend.”

“We cannot afford swords,” Min La lied. The truth, of course, was that he didn’t trust any sword, or any House. If anyone learned the identity of So Ga, the prince would be in terrible danger. One risk weighed against another, it was terrible arithmetic and he was not skilled in it like his sister’s husband had been.

Hino Son gave Nŏl a solemn glance. Nŏl nodded and said to Min La, “The Prince Road might not be as safe as it should be for those who travel alone.”

“Why do you say so?”

“Just this morning — very early, before dawn — a young couple arrived here at the inn. The monks were just opening the gates and happened upon them. They were both nearly frozen from the night and had been running for hours after their carriage had been attacked and seized by bandits.”

“On the Prince Road?” Min La’s blood ran cold.

“So they said.”

“They were bandits? They were certain?”

Nŏl narrowed his eyes but answered evenly, “Yes, mountain bandits. Who else could they have been?”

Min La struggled to maintain his composure. He took a quiet breath and nodded. “But on the Prince Road? I have not heard of bandits on the Prince Road in many years.”

Nŏl regarded him for a moment. Then he said, “The husband collapsed from exhaustion when they came in, but his wife, whom he carried for some miles as she had sprained her ankle when they threw her out of the carriage, was able to describe the attackers. They were dirty, wearing rags, armed with rough daggers and crudely made bows.” He paused. “The husband was skilled. And so he resisted their attempts to take the carriage. But then they… threatened his wife and so he abandoned the carriage and the two were able to flee. They did not think they would truly be allowed to live. But I think even the mountain bandits know better than to slay anyone in Sona Gen.”

“I would not think they would have been bold enough to rob a carriage on the Prince Road, either.”

Nŏl’s eyes were dark. “No, indeed.”

Min La glanced secretly at Nŏl, whose demeanor seemed different from last night, when he had been a great deal more at ease. Now he seemed tense and impatient, even a little angry. If he had been a member of any other House Min La would have attributed his nervous mood to the danger of bandits. But he was of the Ŏklo House.

“Does not the Ŏklo House patrol the roads in this region?” Min La asked casually.

Nŏl looked at the back of his hand on which there was a small splash of mud. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped the mud away almost savagely. As he did so, he said in an even voice, “They can watch the Prince Road. But the forests are vast.”

“Do many of the Houseless live in the forests?”

“That is what we have heard.”

“Perhaps,” Hino Son began, glancing at Nŏl whose mood seemed to be growing darker by the minute, “Perhaps you and your charge ought to ride with us. I think bandits would be more hesitant to attack a carriage of four.”

Min La considered this. As he did so, he tried not to stare at the two young men, laboring as he was to determine whether or not they could be trusted he felt that his face would betray his anxiety. His paranoia insisted that he refuse their offer and take So Ga from this place alone. But in that moment he was calm enough to understand that this would certainly be a greater risk and would place them in greater danger. Hino Son was right. Bandits — or anyone else — would be far less likely to attack a group of four men.

All the same, trust was an impossible notion out here in the world, and with such a valuable and vulnerable charge. Trusting the merchant caravan had been one matter; a transaction that amounted to nothing more than an exchange of gold for services. Trusting the open generosity of strangers was a much more complicated risk. Nŏl and Hino Son might have ulterior motives — in fact, it was highly probable that they did. But Min La was not inclined to suspect that those motives were evil, or even that they put him and So Ga in danger.

He considered discussing it with So Ga. But in the end the choice was his to make. With a small bow he accepted Hino Son and Nŏl’s offer.

As the carriage left The White Inn’s enclosed courtyard, their two new traveling companions introduced themselves to So Ga. They smiled brightly at him and paid him respectful bows — which So Ga returned — calling him “So Nan”, as Min La had introduced him earlier.

Nŏl was tall and traditionally dressed in the style of the west. So Ga knew of his family and had even read reports praising his father’s work along the Srenléth border. It did not surprise him to find that a son of such a Housemaster would possess the same dignified and elegant demeanor as his esteemed father.

The young Nŏl hadn’t ever left Sălov prior to this journey. Born the sixth child of the Ŏklo Housemaster — and the third to survive the four-week confinement — Nŏl did not, like his older brothers, have his father’s expectations upon his shoulders. Both of his brothers occupied important positions in the management of the House, and it was expected that his eldest brother would soon be named their father’s heir. The high family of Ŏklo did not, like Lăsoth in the East or Ŏnoma¹ in the north, employ a council vote for the naming of the Housemaster’s successor. Since time immemorial the Ŏklo heir had been chosen from within the high family by the Housemaster himself.

Three years ago, at the age of nineteen, Nŏl had taken a wife. She was a gentle, smart young woman from within the House, whose family operated a number of cotton farms near the roots of the Sălov Mountains. Nŏl had taken up a position within this business and, so far, found it rewarding. His wife’s family was warmer than his own and he was glad for them.

Nŏl explained that it was in the operation of this cotton business that he had met Hino Son. The So Hoth House was proud and martial, but very small. And though the Ŏklo House was vast and powerful, their swords were concentrated in Sona Gen. In truth, the martial arm of the Ŏklo House had been waning of late.

“Especially,” Hino Son said, “since the king placed limitations on a House’s swords.”

Nŏl glanced at Min La. So Ga did as well, though for different reasons. Nŏl believed him sensitive to even an oblique mention of the events of nine years ago, as a native of Hin Dan who was weary of being associated with the condemned Nŭnon House.

But So Ga knew the truth. And it surprised him how well Min La maintained his even composure.

Hino Son explained that the So Hoth Housemaster — his uncle — had negotiated an arrangement with Nŏl’s father allowing So Hoth swords to guard the Ŏklo farms in the west. Hino Son, as a result of this, had frequent interaction with Nŏl’s wife’s family. It was in this way that the two became friends.

Hino Son’s So Hoth House was also known to So Ga, a fact which pleased the young man greatly. Of course, So Ga couldn’t tell him how he knew of his House.

Deep in the archives of the Palace were several dozens — perhaps hundreds — of volumes in which the Houses of Láokoth were listed. This was not the official register of Houses, as that was the business of each princedom and not within the king’s responsibilities. These ancient, dusty volumes were merely a historian’s record, maintained by the Royal Historians as something between a hobby and a personal sense of duty. Before the attack nine years ago, So Ga had often hidden from his studies in that corner of the archives. The endless list of Housenames fascinated him. If, like his mother had said, the Houses were stones that built the structure of Láokoth, then each of these Houses was a brick. And all of them together built a country. As if Láokoth itself was an estate, and its strength was determined by the might of each individual brick.

He remembered many of the names he had read in those days, though he had not made it through all the books, by any means. But he did remember So Hoth, mainly because it had been recently added, sometime in the last seventy years. He knew little of it, just that its estate was in Sălov and it was highly martial, often compared to the ancient martial sects of Ôdenra.

Hino Son certainly fitted the image of such a House. His broad shoulders and muscular build suggested a lifetime spent in rigorous training. And the keen, fearless way in which he observed the world, the openness of his demeanor, made So Ga believe that he had been taught a certain code of nobility, but that this teaching had not yet been tried. He trusted his own character, in other words, but had not yet had cause to judge the character of others, and so he lacked the wariness that came with time spent in the world. Certainly very strong, Hino Son seemed good-natured and stout-hearted. But he also seemed inexperienced, and had likely never left the immediate vicinity of his House’s lands in Sălov.

The more he spoke, the more So Ga came to suspect that he had been sent out into the east in part to gain experience, to slough off the last vestiges of childhood so that the man Hino Son could begin to reveal himself. No doubt his uncle, the So Hoth Housemaster, had done this deliberately. It seemed he had high hopes for his nephew.

Although, at twenty Hino Son was still not married, to his uncle’s great disappointment. He related this to Min La and So Ga while Nŏl hid a pained expression. There were few personal matters about which Hino Son was unwilling to talk, even with new friends.

The early part of their journey was considerably less tense than yesterday’s; the company of these two travelers was far easier than that of Lin Jenin’s carriage occupants. Both chatted warmly, particularly with Min La, who seemed at ease with them — as much as he could be under the circumstances. So Ga liked both of them immensely and understood why Min La had trusted them enough to travel with them.

In time Min La and So Ga came to learn the reason that their two traveling companions were so far east. The So Hoth House had come to be a valued ally and friend of the Ŏklo House. It was considered by some an advantageous friendship for small, young So Hoth, but Nŏl’s father was also very glad to have swords on whom he could rely. When a marriage was proposed between the So Hoth Housemaster’s son and the Ŏklo Housemaster’s niece, this seemed a worthy match to both sides.

According to ancient custom, the groom would travel to the bride’s estate to wed her in her family’s house. He would then await permission from her Housemaster to return with her to his own estate. The young man, Hino Son’s cousin, had departed some weeks ago and had already arrived at the Ŏklo estate. The wedding would be held in a few days.

“And so,” So Ga asked Nŏl, “you are traveling to your uncle’s estate for the wedding?”

Nŏl nodded once.

Hino Son added, “His cousin and my cousin. We shall practically be family.”

“Perhaps we can find you a wife while we’re there,” Nŏl said, with a hidden smile.

“Never mind that. My uncle has said that he’ll make arrangements when we return home, after…” he stopped and glanced at So Ga and Min La, then went on, “after the wedding.”

So Ga noticed that Hino Son and Nŏl did not ask either of them many questions about their own House or families. He suspected that both were trying to be polite to the possible sensitivities of Hin Dan natives. When he thought this, So Ga looked at Min La. He found himself wondering how long it had been since he had been in Hin Dan, and if he still considered that place his home.

Around midday, the driver took them to a small inn a little off the Prince Road. More a temple than an inn, it nevertheless provided a small hall and warm food. As the day was growing steadily colder, they were glad for the fire and the hot stew the monks served, though it was quite tasteless. But the coffee was strong and hot.

Their driver, an aged man who frequently took passengers along the Prince Road for a fee, also ate at the inn, but took his bowl of stew back to the stables where his horses were being fed and watered.

“The monks at the White Inn told me that he prefers the company of animals to that of men,” Hino Son remarked when Min La watched the old man tuck himself into a corner of the stables, perched on a stool near his horses to whom he seemed to be speaking softly.

“They know him?” he asked.

“Yes. He’s been taking fares from the White Inn for decades, they said.” He patted Min La’s shoulder. “Do not fear, my friend. He can be trusted.”

A chill settled around the floor of the inn’s small hall while they ate. So Ga regarded the sky through the one clouded window.

He said to Min La, “I do not know if we will have the weather on our side.”

Min La glanced at the window. “It will be what it will be.”

Nŏl asked, “Are you still hoping to make it home before the winter begins in earnest?”

Min La was sipping his coffee, so So Ga answered. “We hoped, of course,” he said. “But it doesn’t seem likely.”

“Your mother must be eager for your return.” The observation was made genuinely, with a warm smile. But So Ga could not help but feel a stab of fear. What if his answer gave them away? What if he already had done so? As he tried to calm himself, he found himself wondering how Min La always managed this so easily.

He said quietly, “Yes.” And as he did so, a sensation came over him, a pang of something like nostalgia. He felt a comfortable familiarity with Nŏl and Hino Son. He felt the beginnings of a genuine friendship. And yet beneath it was lies. Lies upon lies. Everything they knew about him and Min La was a lie. And if they knew the truth, if they knew that So Ga was the crown prince and Min La was the last survivor of Nŭnon, the friendship between them would be ripped out by the roots and thrown away. It was a very isolating feeling.

So Ga noticed that Min La was more relaxed than he had been yesterday. No longer as tensely protective as he had been in Lin Jenin’s carriage, he was even allowing him to speak with strangers. So Ga wondered if he was finally starting to trust him, or if he was merely distracted by last night’s secret revelation.

Nŏl was saying, “If we are able to continue at this pace, we should reach my uncle’s estate by sundown tomorrow.” He turned to Min La. “You should come with us, my friend. You and So Nan will be welcome at my cousin’s wedding.”

Min La smiled. “Your offer is kind, but I think our presence would perhaps darken the festivities.”

“Nonsense,” Nŏl said, with a light wave of his hand. “The Ŏklo House is not hindered by such absurd notions.”

Hino Son grunted in agreement.

So Ga realized that, being from the west, these two young men likely knew little of Nŏl’s eastern kin. The reputation of Von Ol Ŏklo had spread throughout Sona Gen in recent years. One of his royal father’s ministers had once said in court that it was a shame for such a grand House to fall into the hands of such a stupid, simple-minded man. This statement ought to have been met with some outrage, as direct criticisms of the Ancient Houses was frowned upon. But it seemed that no one had disagreed enough to say so out loud.

Hino Son was sipping a small bowl of hot milky wine. This was a cheap version of the fine rose plum liquor that was served in the Palace and in the estates of some of the wealthier Houses. It smelled of cinnamon and sickly sweet fruit. So Ga had tried some out of curiosity, but the taste was strongly bitter, cut by heavily sweetened thick cream. He had coughed and made a face and Hino Son and Nŏl had laughed. This inn was the charge of a small temple of monks who served Imnethrun, the Ădol daughter of Héothenin and Íoselin, who was said to be fondest of the forests. Imnethrun’s monks were known across Láokoth to specialize in the making of alcohols. But this elixir, Hino Son quietly assured them, was not one of their better efforts.

“It feels like I’m drinking the crushed, overripe plums trampled on the orchard floor by the goats. I believe I can taste grass. And also their hooves.”

“Whose hooves?” Nŏl asked. “The goats? Or the monks?”

Hino Son laughed, though he attempted to stifle the sound in the small, empty hall.

He said, “Was there not a monk a hundred years ago who had the legs of a goat? Was that not one of Imnethrun’s own monks?”

“Mm,” Nŏl shook his head. “He was a man who had requested the right to become her Guest.”

So Ga smiled into his steaming coffee. He had heard this story. “And there is always a price for immortality.”

Min La glanced at him, perhaps surprised. Then he added with a small smile, “There is no joy in being a Guest. It is everlasting torment.”

Hino Son looked vaguely stricken. “I don’t think I would ever agree to have my legs replaced by those of a goat. Even if I did get to live forever.”

Nŏl patted his shoulder. “There, now, my friend. Not all Guests have their legs replaced by goat legs.”

So Ga remembered being a child when he had first been told the story of Imnethrun’s half-goat Guest. The Ădol were forbidden by Heothenin from moving through the world of men, but their attendants and Guests could act on their behalf. Though according to the story, the goat man had not been made a Guest to serve Imnethrun, but rather to serve a sentence. He had been a vile, selfish man concerned only with the pursuits of the flesh. Imnethrun had answered his demand for Guesthood in a way that was intended to punish him for his greed. But So Ga could not remember how the story ended.

He asked Nŏl.

“In the version my father told me he fled Imnethrun’s service after a hundred years or so and went into the mountains where he was mistaken for a goat by some of the attendants of Volhathin² who killed him while they were hunting. In the end he was cooked and eaten by Volhathin.”

Hino Son nodded. “That’s also how I heard it.”

It didn’t sound familiar to So Ga.

“In Hin Dan,” Min La began, “it is told that Soháth hunted the goat-legged man.”

“Yes,” So Ga agreed, surprised to recognize Min La’s version. He remembered only then that that was one of the stories of Soháth that Hin Lan had read to him when he was a young child.

“Was not Soháth an attendant of Volhathin? Or was he his Guest?” Nŏl asked.

“Is it not strange for a Guest to hunt a Guest?” asked Hino Son.

“Soháth is not a Guest,” answered So Ga. “He is an attendant. Or he was. An attendant of Unolreth. Or, I suppose, of Volhathin.”

“So he was an attendant, then. Perhaps our versions of the story are the same after all,” Nŏl remarked. “There is a legend in the west that when Soháth chose to leave Volhathin, Níoth made him his own Guest and that is his why he still lives to this day, despite being tethered to none of the Ădol.”

Hino Son sloshed his rose plum wine thoughtfully in his bowl. “Do you suppose that’s true? Do you think they live still, heroes like Soháth? Do you think they ever lived?”

“I do,” Min La answered. And when So Ga looked at him, he was surprised to see him smiling slightly.

“So do I,” So Ga agreed.

Nŏl smiled and nudged Hino Son. “There you have it. Now finish your wine so we can be off.”

Hino Son obediently lifted the little bowl to his lips with a grimace when suddenly a voice nearby spoke to them.

“Hadven,” the rasping voice said.

Turning, they all saw a small, bent old man curled like a crescent moon over the edge of a nearby table. He wore many layers of rough, homespun cloth, all in shades of brown. A simple straw hat dangled on its ties down his back. His short hair was gray and brown, his rough skin dark and wrinkled. But his eyes were bright as candles, shining in the light of the fire next to him. He had his own bowl of wine, much larger than Hino Son’s. Though he had clearly spoken to them, he did not look at them.

Nŏl said to him, “I beg your pardon?”

“That is what they call it.” The old man turned his shining eyes to them and So Ga found himself tensing. “The sickness of Volhathin and all his spawn.”

Min La answered, with a calm voice that seemed unaffected by the strange wave of ominous melancholy that seemed to pour from the aged stranger, “He has not spawn, friend. I think you are mistaken. Níoth granted him attendants, but he was forbidden the right of creation.”

“The right? No. But he takes it, all the same. Why do you think he was bound in the north by Héothenin? He took what was not his. He takes and consumes.”

But Hino Son asked, “What does that mean, ‘hadven’?”

“It is an old word. One from the days before the Brenigev Empire ruled the world. One from before, long before. It means ‘hunger’ but of a darker, cursed sort. It is an insatiable hunger that can never be filled, an eternal emptiness. It is why he always consumes everything, Volhathin. His greed and his hunger are bottomless and will never be satisfied. And it is this same hunger that he gives to his creation, his dreth. They say he comes from the Young Sea. A more terrible place there has never been.”

“You shouldn’t speak of such things,” Nŏl said, rather curtly. Min La and So Ga both glanced at him, surprised by the vehemence of his statement.

“Why? Do you fear it? If so, you are wise.”

“There are things in this world one ought not speak of so casually.”

The old man smiled. His teeth were brilliantly white and shone in the dull hall. When he turned his head, So Ga saw a large patch on his jaw that was covered in bandages that were stained red and yellow. His stomach turned.

The old man went on, “They say you can smell the Orange Grove in some places in the world. And in those places the wall between worlds is thinner, between Houses. For, you see, we — you and I and all the living — dwell in the House of Níoth. But the House of Énan is always with us as well, divided from us by an unseen wall. But in some places in this world, the wall is thin. In those places, when you can smell oranges you should be afraid, because you are near the border of the House of Énan. And to walk in the House of Énan is to walk on the shores of the Young Sea. It is from those dark waters that Volhathin returned hungry and malicious. It was the Young Sea that hollowed him and made him hadven. There are some things in this world which are frightening but which we must always remember. The young, especially, would do well to remember, lest those dark, empty waters return to swallow our world a second time.”

Hino Son, face dark with anger, opened his mouth to speak but Nŏl put his hand on his wrist.

“You’ll have to excuse us, my friend. We must get back on the road if we’re to make our destination in time. Please forgive our rudeness.” And with that, he stood.

The others stood and followed him, though Nŏl had to pull Hino Son by the arm.

The sky was growing dark much more quickly than So Ga would have expected. They walked in gray light across the inn’s small yard. Hino Son, who seemed to have been troubled by the strange old man’s talk of Volhathin and the Young Sea, paced violently. Having roused the driver from where he had dozed in the stable next to the horses with a sharp word, he had gradually calmed. So Ga didn’t understand what had troubled him, but Nŏl seemed to. In time the young man returned to his usual self. So Ga found himself wondering if the reason Nŏl had tried to silence the old man was because he had known his talk would trouble his friend. The two whispered together quietly while the driver prepared the carriage. By the time they were underway, he seemed to have returned to his usual, cheery self. Though So Ga suspected the wine had helped. His cheeks were red and he seemed sleepy, but more at ease.

Sitting again in the jostling carriage, So Ga found himself aware of a growing feeling that he had not expected from any portion of this journey. He was comfortable. Nŏl and Hino Son were exactly the kind of young men he would have tried to befriend had he not been confined to his Little Palace. Min La, too, had fate not severed him from his own House and the rest of society. In another life the four of them could have been good friends, they could have grown up together, hunted together, trained together. Their wives would have been friends, and their children, as well.

Not for the first time, So Ga felt a certain hatred for his station. There was untold power in the hands of the king. But power isolated all who held it. Isolation, So Ga had begun to understand, was the chiefest pain in all the world.

Min La, however, still seemed troubled. Though it seemed to be something other than the strange words of the old man in the inn that had so unsettled him. So Ga tried to ask him, but he merely shook his head and again lifted the shade.

They rode in comfortable silence for another hour or more. Not silence, exactly. They spoke, but not of anything in particular. It was the easy conversation made by friends who were passing the time. Min La, who had begun to rub his fingers, continued to check the road from time to time while Hino Son grew drowsy.

So Ga found himself asking after Nŏl’s wife. “She could not join you for this journey?”

He smiled, a quiet flush of pink spread across his cheeks. Looking at his hands, he answered, “She is not in a condition to travel.”

So Ga understood at once. He nodded and smiled. “Your first?” he asked.

Nŏl shook his head. “Second. The last survived for twenty days.”

So Ga nodded again. He knew such things were common, but it was nevertheless sad news to hear, and painful for Nŏl to relate. He regretted asking, but found himself warming even more to the young Ŏklo lord.

Min La again lifted the shade.

“My friend,” Hino Son said, rousing from half-sleep, “what in the world do you keep looking at?”

Min La gave a sheepish smile. “I am sorry. I just have a strange—”

The carriage came to a sudden stop. Nŏl fell against Min La and Hino Son barely caught himself from collapsing upon So Ga. Before So Ga had even realized that they had stopped, Min La was reaching into the bag across his chest for the long, thin knife he had stolen from the mercenary in the woods.

Nŏl looked at Hino Son, then Min La — and his eyes flickered with surprise when he saw the knife half out of the bag — then he pounded the palm of his hand on the carriage wall.

“What is happening?” he demanded.

“Should we go out and see?” Hino Son asked.

Nŏl said nothing, waiting for the driver to answer. But no answer came. He hit the wall again.

“M-my lords,” came the reply at last, the aged man stammering in a daze. “My lords, you had better come out.”

The four of them looked at each other. Hino Son had his hand around the hilt of his sword, knuckles white, Min La’s knife was fully removed from his bag and out of its leather sheath.

“We had better,” Nŏl said.

Hino Son nodded, and stood to lead. Bent, he made his way to the little wooden door at the back of the carriage. He pushed it open quickly, then stepped back and took hold of his sword hilt again.

But the road behind them was empty.

However, when the door opened and the fresh evening air rushed in, it was tainted heavily by the acrid sharpness of smoke.

Hino Son jumped down from the carriage with Nŏl close behind him.

“Stay close to me,” Min La whispered to So Ga, who nodded.

They followed the others, jumping down onto the road.

Smoke had clouded above them, a billow of black and gray cloud carried by the cold, gusting wind. It was sparkling with red and orange embers and smelled faintly sweet. So Ga stared at it, transfixed, reminded suddenly of the fire he had escaped only days ago. And now here before him, fire again. He had the strange sense that his life was gradually becoming a fire.

Min La pulled him by the arm, making him walk closely behind. He noticed that Nŏl and Hino Son seemed to also glance at where he was, as if they, too, wished to protect him if necessary. So Ga felt very small in the company of these three, but was glad for them, as his heart was hammering in his chest and he knew little except how to run and hide.

Slowly, the four of them moved around the carriage. The driver was standing next to it, staring at the road ahead. His arms hung at his sides. He was like a figure carved of wood, he did not answer when Nŏl called to him.

They did not see it until they were standing almost alongside the horses. The pillar of gray and black smoke climbed higher than the trees. The wind pushed the smoke and the heat into their faces. The fire was a brilliant shock of orange and red snapping angrily at the autumn air.

It was some seconds before So Ga realized what he was looking at. It was a carriage — the horses gone — tipped on its side, entirely aflame. Not just a carriage, however. There was the bright sea green domed roof, and bits of yellow paint were still visible through the flames.

It was Lin Jenin’s carriage.

“Stay here,” Hino Son commanded Min La. “We will check.”

Min La nodded, his face pale. Turning, he glanced at So Ga. Neither of them knew what to say.

After Hino Son and Nŏl went into the woods on either side of the fire, So Ga whispered, “Do you think it was them?”

Min La pressed his lips into a flat line and thought for a moment. Then, “I don’t know.”

Nŏl returned first. “I think whoever did this is gone.” He motioned at the carriage and added, “this has been burning for some time. An hour or two, at least.”

“Bandits?” Min La asked, and his voice was hoarse.

Nŏl nodded. “They probably took the horses, too.”

The driver made a frightened sound at that, and went to his own horses to soothe them.

The air changed and became brighter. Glancing up, So Ga saw that it had begun to snow. The whiteness mixed with the smoke and swirling ash and cast a silent strangeness over the scene that he found painful to his mind.

It was then that they heard Hino Son make a sound like a cry from within the trees. Nŏl flinched and put his hand on his sword.

“Hino Son?” he called. But he did not answer.

They all went together to find him, the driver announcing that he would stay with the carriage.

So Ga remained close to Min La. His mind was swirling with the shock of their discovery. In addition to that, of course, the thought of their narrow escape. They would have been inside that carriage had Min La not decided to leave the caravan. It was just then, when he was feeling particularly grateful for his good fortune, that they found Hino Son.

He was standing very still, his sword in one hand, his head bowed. The snow drifted around him, settling in his hair and upon his shoulders.

“Hino Son?” Nŏl said. But he still did not answer.

They approached until they were standing by his side. And then they looked where he was looking, at a spot a small ways off. Beneath a large maple tree — its red leaves casting a pinkish light over this part of the forest — there were several large shapes of cloth. The snow was collecting upon them in little white patches.

Nŏl put his hand on Hino Son’s shoulder and tried to speak to him. Min La and So Ga, however, found themselves drawn to the shapes. It was the sense of familiarity that compelled So Ga. He believed he could almost make out what they were, and needed only to look a little closer.

But then he stopped, Min La kept going, but So Ga could not move. There, in a row under the maple tree, were Ăna San Sengí, her husband Vono, and her small maid. All dead.

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Or, if you’d prefer to leave a small, one-time token of support, you could:

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1. Iy-yoh-NOH-mah

2. VOHL-hah-thin; who is not Ădol, but the son of Soranen, one of the lesser Ădol