Kío En Tolen1 stood under the umbrella held by his bodysword and considered what he ought to do. It had not been raining when he arrived at the Palace several hours ago, but the sky had turned abruptly black and now poured cold, gray sheets of water that showed no signs of stopping.
He had been standing here for almost an hour; the evening court meeting had ended hours ago and the rest of the king’s ministers and their clerks had returned home long ago. Most of the Palace was quieting into its usual evening stillness. A stillness that grew in thickness like packed cotton. It unsettled him.
His bodysword, Nălo2, stood by his side holding his umbrella while watching closely the many avenues of the Palace. There was nothing to fear here, of course, the king’s Palace was more heavily guarded than even the barracks of his formidable army at Osa Gate. Nevertheless there had been a changed air throughout ever since the fire had burned the king’s grounds and cost the Palace House, it was said, some five or six servants. Kío En knew to trust Nălo however. He had been guarding him for longer than he had been prime minister and had seen his master through, among other dangers, the attack on the Palace nine years ago. If Nălo felt uneasy, something was likely amiss.
Kío En Tolen stood a head shorter than his guard, but few would have noticed. He had once been described by his predecessor as a drop of ink on wet paper; appearing suddenly, darkly and then growing until it filled the page. A man of fifty, he was still hale as he had been in his youth, though his hair was streaked with gray and there were wrinkles crowding the corners of his eyes. Kío En’s daughter called them rays. She said of her father that his face glowed with every smile. He was very fond of his daughter. After the death of his wife several years ago, In Na had been the one light in his increasingly dark and fog-shrouded life.
The cloak of ivory wool that covered his thin silk golt was darkened at the hem by the rain water that had puddled on the cobblestone Palace road. His golt — dark red and embroidered all over in blue patterns of oak leaves, the handiwork of his daughter — was not suitable for the chill night. And the cloak was doing little to help. He suppressed a shiver and clasped his hands behind his back.
This evening’s court meeting had been even more tense and unsatisfying than this morning’s, or yesterday’s, or the day before. For days these meetings had been dominated by talk of the fire. Although the fire itself was never spoken of directly, of course. The king’s ministers were adept at this above all else: they could speak of a thing for hours on end without referring to it directly. Yesterday the king had indicated to them, in a way Kío En was meant to implicitly understand, that he wished to no longer hear it mentioned. And so Kío En, as the head of the king’s ministers, attempted to pull the court’s energies elsewhere. After all, the country had not ceased its functions just because a fire had broken out in the Palace.
But Kío En was growing concerned. For fifteen years he had been king’s Oak Hand, the royal House’s ancient name for the prime minister. For fifteen years he had been routinely summoned to the king’s inner chamber no fewer than four times a week to discuss court matters and other issues related to the management of his ministers. In the course of those fifteen years Kío En had begun to regard the king as a man worthy of respect. He had, if he was being entirely honest with himself, begun to think of the king as a friend, insofar as one could be friends with one’s monarch.
But in the five days since the fire the king had not summoned him once. The more he considered this, the more he became convinced that this could only be due to one of two reasons.
The first was the most likely, he knew. A matter that was widely known in the court — and, indeed, in all of Láokoth — was that Kío En’s wife had been Lŭ Lin Ăvan’s sister. It had been six years since she had died, but Kío En still considered Lŭ Lin his family, and had never made a secret of this familial fondness. Still, Kío En and Lŭ Lin had both made a point of maintaining a strict divide between their friendship and their respective official duties. Never, in almost twenty years, had either uttered a word to each other about Palace matters outside the king’s court.
He knew that the king had held Lŭ Lin responsible for the fire, all the court knew this. And so Kío En’s closeness to the Grand Steward might, at this moment, be an unsavory connection in the king’s eyes. Of course, it would also be unseemly for Kío En to renounce his sister-in-law — especially as she had saved herself — but the king might still keep his distance from his Oak Hand regardless. It was, Kío En knew, a difficult position for the king who relied upon him to maintain stability in his court, but who was nevertheless unable to show him his usual favor in light of recent events. If this was the reason for the king’s recent coldness towards him, he knew it would pass in its own time. Though it would certainly make governing the court a challenge both for the king and for his Oak Hand.
There was a second possibility, however. And this one troubled him more and more with each passing day. It was possible that what had happened inside the Palace had not been as simple as a mere fire. And the king was keeping his distance in order to keep this matter a secret from his court. Kío En could think of nothing that the king would guard this closely, except his son. Lately this thought had begun to trouble him enough that he was no longer able to sleep.
And so, for almost an hour Kío En Tolen had been standing in front of the residence of the Grand Steward.
Nălo glanced around, noting the slightly greater than usual number of royal swords who seemed to be casually patrolling this corner of the Palace grounds, impervious to the steady downpour. Noting, too, the emptiness that had otherwise settled here. He had been bringing his master to Lŭ Lin’s residence for many years and he had never seen it so vacant — save, of course, for the swords. Besides the patrols, he saw no one else. It was as though the rest of the Palace had withdrawn from this one corner, even the gusting wind seemed not to touch the drenched willows that drooped across the residence’s modest gate.
Abruptly, Kío En took hold of the umbrella. Glancing at Nălo, he said, “Wait with the carriage.”
The guard bowed, “Yes, my lord.”
The Grand Steward’s residence — a gift from the king — was not large or sprawling, but it was fine and had, over the years, come to resemble greatly the nature of the woman it housed. The small structure was surrounded by an abbreviated wall that stood no taller than Kío En and which was only lit at the corners and at the gate by dangling glass lanterns.
The gate itself opened immediately when Kío En approached. A young attendant — not a sword — bowed at the Oak Hand as he entered. No doubt the Grand Steward’s household had seen him standing outside the walls for some time. Instead of escorting him to the front door of the residence, however, he merely gestured for him go in that direction himself. Kío En watched as the young attendant returned to the little structure next to the gate that shielded him from the rain. Leaning there, the young man took up a small wooden flask that had been resting near a lantern. With his eyes closed, he took several small sips.
Lŭ Lin’s little wooden house was neatly kept and decorated with carefully maintained gardens. Here in the stretch of walkway between the gate and the front door there were several trees which bloomed fragrantly in the spring. Beyond, several small gazebos — each large enough for only one person to stand within — stood here and there, connected by the thin thread of a stream Lŭ Lin had dug herself. All along its narrow banks she had planted lilies and delphiniums, though all had been cut back in preparation for the long winter. The rain had caused the stream to overflow, muddying its banks.
Kío En stepped upon the porch and out of the rain. Putting his umbrella away, he waited for the door to open, but it remained closed. The attendant next to the gate, indifferent to the path of his mistress’s visitor, continued to sip from his wooden flask. At last Kío En rapped his knuckles on the cold, damp wood.
An unfamiliar face opened the door to him. A pale little woman younger than twenty with a small round face and thin dark hair. She looked upon him with an impatient expression. She seemed not to know who he was, which was impossible for anyone who lived in the Palace.
“I have come to call upon your mistress,” he said plainly.
She pursed her lips, and together with her round cheeks and small head this startling expression made her look like a pouting child. He thought for a moment that she would turn him away. And since the Grand Steward was not in any way confined to her residence and as no orders had moved through the channels barring her from visitors, this would have been most irregular, and Kío En was preparing a speech in his head along these lines when at last the small woman stood aside to let him in.
“Wait here, my lord,” she murmured as she let the door slam shut, and then hurried off.
The vestibule of Lŭ Lin Ăvan’s little residence was as carefully maintained as the gardens outside. Though the little room was empty of furniture, the walls were covered in intricate frescoes, as was the popular custom in the north. It was said that the king’s mother, the dowager queen — some years before she had died — had suggested the frescoes to the young Grand Steward. Lŭ Lin had politely allowed the dowager queen to direct the painting of this little vestibule however she wished, and so the room was covered with beautiful scenes depicting the four high Ădol. Whether or not Lŭ Lin liked these frescoes herself was impossible to say. She served the king, Kío En knew. Little else mattered.
As a member of the Tolen House, Kío En had, like the rest of his House, always had a particular fondness for the high Ădol Íosolen3, the consort of Héothenin, and the guardian of all living things. It was said in the legends that it had been she who had made the beasts of the earth and the birds of the sky. It was also said that deep in Héothenin’s mountain caverns, when he placed the tiles of every man’s path upon his mountain walls, that path was not set until Íosolen had fixed it in place with molten gold. According to the stories, after all, it was Íosolen who had invented time.
In Lŭ Lin’s vestibule, Íosolen had been painted with a lion and deer standing by her side while a falcon — a Sona falcon — perched solemnly on her shoulder. Her eyes glowed with gold leaf and a lantern shining nearby caught the flecks of it that had been added to her long red golt. Looking at it now, Kío En was surprised to see that Íosolen had been, perhaps, painted to bear a resemblance to Lŭ Lin. He wondered if the dowager queen had done this on purpose.
At last the small creature returned, half running, and announced that he was to follow her. Irritated at her manner, he obeyed. They wove at great speed through the corridors of Lŭ Lin’s residence; it was all he could do to keep up with her as she was practically jogging, both hands gripping the skirts of her golt, her little braided knot of hair bouncing against her back.
He knew the general direction they were traveling and recognized that he was being led — with the greatest possible haste — to Lŭ Lin’s receiving room near the rear of her residence. It was a room made up of many large windows — a costly and exquisite detail — in which she maintained a large collection of rare flowers and where she liked to receive guests, especially formal ones. She had once told him that the openness of the room seemed to put people at their ease.
When finally their hasty journey reached its end, that was indeed where Kío En found himself, standing before a pale wheat-colored screen embroidered all over with many different kinds of flowers. As it was slightly translucent, he could just see her shape through it.
The little woman bowed stiffly upon entering the room ahead of him and said to the screen, “The Prime Minister, my lady.”
Then she glanced at him, offered a small bow, and moved to leave.
“Would you bring us tea, please?” called Lŭ Lin’s voice, considerably weaker than usual. Upon hearing it the servant pursed her lips again and then bowed with a murmured reply and hurried off.
“I am sorry for her behavior,” he heard Lŭ Lin say. “There are many new people in my residence and we are all still getting used to each other.”
Kío En moved around the screen that blocked Lŭ Lin’s chair and desk from the doorway. As he did he caught sight of Sen Na, her faithful maid, who was standing a little behind her, framed all around by the drooping, weighted blossoms of a white orchid that hung in a glass pot above her. She bore a pained expression on her fair face, her back to a wall of windows. The large panes had been glossed by night and so were like mirrors reflecting the interior of the room as though veiled darkly. Kío En could make out the bushes and young trees on the other side of the glass. The sound of rain on the windows lent a hum to the quiet air in the room which was otherwise silent, save for the crackling of a small porcelain stove near the center. Warmth emanated from it in small waves, a bit of condensation had formed along the edges of the window panes. All around. flowers in pots dangled from frames or from the beams that stretched across the ceiling. The room was fragrant with roses and jasmine.
Lŭ Lin was seated at her desk, leaning upon the arm of her chair, which was stained dark like the desk itself. She was not wearing the dark blue she usually favored, nor did she have the black sash of her station that had been bestowed by the king. Instead a plain velvet golt of pale lavender was draped loosely over a white linen inner golt and tied at the waist without ornament. Her long hair was loose and unadorned, her face ashen and her eyes dark and rimmed in shadow.
As Kío En came into the room his eyes went immediately to her arms. Her left hand was resting motionless upon the desk, white as stone, and her right arm was tucked inside the voluminous folds of her lavender sleeves. Despite the care she had taken to hide it, he could clearly see the smooth edge of the stump under the fabric, he could see that the arm ended abruptly at her wrist. He had not intended to, but he stared. He had not been there when she had saved herself, he had only heard of it that evening by messenger. As far as he knew, no one had been there but the king and several Palace servants.
“It is alright,” he heard Lŭ Lin say. “I have been told that I am not in danger.”
On the desk sat a small brown vial with a golden stopper. She saw him looking at it and said, “A gift from the king. It is gindun. Though I have found that I only need it when I sleep.” And she gestured for him to sit in the chair opposite.
Kío En was not able to conceal the look of concern on his face. She smiled and adjusted the sleeve over her right arm with a grimace. Sen Na looked like she could burst into tears at any moment.
“I am afraid that there is a very good chance we might not actually get our tea,” Lŭ Lin said apologetically. Then she lifted her eyes and looked at him sharply. “As I said, there are many new faces in my residence.”
Kío En glanced again at Sen Na whose eyes were wide and shining. She immediately looked at the floor, though her knuckles were white as she clasped her hands together at her waist.
“It is good to see you are recovering,” he said to Lŭ Lin carefully. She smiled when she heard it and nodded once, as if approving this line of conversation. “I hope you will be able to return to your duties soon.”
At this her smile vanished. “It will be some time, yet.”
He nodded and thought for a moment. “I am here,” he began again, “in part to offer the good wishes of In Na. She is very worried for your recovery.”
Lŭ Lin smiled and nodded again. “She is a dear girl.”
“She misses her aunt and would like to visit you, when you have recovered of course.”
At that moment the cross little creature from before appeared with a great clattering of dishes on a tray which she planted roughly upon the desk. Kío En snatched the vial of gindun out of the way before it could be sent flying. The maid bowed and then fled the room.
Lŭ Lin sighed, but her smile didn’t leave her lips. Sen Na came forward then and began to pour the tea for them, but her hands shook visibly and she struggled not to spill. Lŭ Lin gently lifted her left hand and squeezed the girl’s trembling arm. Her own hand shook from the effort. It seemed utterly lifeless when she set it back upon the desk. Kío En struggled to maintain his composure as he looked upon this terrible scene.
Sen Na carefully set a small tea cup before him and he tried to smile warmly at her but the girl could barely meet his gaze. He had never seen such terror and wondered greatly at the source of it. Indeed, her mistress should be considered safe. She had saved herself and had even been gifted a precious vial of medicine by the king himself. It seemed that the lack of favor the king was currently showing her was for show only. He still valued her highly and wished for her to know it. Sen Na had no reason to fear for her mistress. Yet the poor child seemed to be nothing but a knot of fear.
A thought occurred to him and he spent some time thinking in silence how he might phrase it. At last he began, “It is good that you have all these additional members of your household.”
Lŭ Lin looked at him sharply, but her smile did not fade.
“Sen Na, after all, is only one girl. And you are in need of a great deal more aid at this time so you can recover slowly, without straining your health.”
Lŭ Lin exhaled slowly, as if she had been holding her breath the entire time he had been speaking. She nodded once and said, “It was most considerate of the Palace Housemaster to be so solicitous of my well-being.”
“The Palace Housemaster himself arranged for this? How extraordinary. What a kind man he is.”
“Oh, no. Not himself at all.” She laughed lightly and waved her trembling left hand, gesturing to herself. “This unfortunate woman is not worthy of such singular attention. No, indeed, he sent the wonderful Éna Lí to see to my needs. She has been most particular. It was she who arranged for all this additional help in my residence.”
“How kind of her,” he replied flatly, with a forced smile.
He was familiar with Éna Lí. For some months now it seemed that the woman was always by the king’s side. In truth, he couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been by his side, but only recently had he begun to notice. As if, perhaps, she had begun to edge nearer and nearer. Kío En was not the only person in the king’s court who believed that Éna Lí was likely attempting to place herself in a position to become heir to the Palace House’s highest seat. Lately Kío En had begun to wonder if she had already succeeded.
In any case, it was interesting that Éna Lí had taken it upon herself to surround Lŭ Lin with her own people. More and more Kío En had the impression that the Grand Steward’s residence had become much more like her prison. But why would Éna Lí seek to imprison Lŭ Lin? Did she fear her? Did she have reason to?
He sipped the tea, though he barely tasted it except to notice that it seemed exceptionally weak.
The tea cup itself caught his eye. Holding it in his hand he suddenly recalled that his wife had been the one to give it to Lŭ Lin, her sister.
As he noticed this, she shook her head slowly, as if reading his thoughts.
“No you are mistaken, this is not the tea set my sister gave me all those years ago. This one is not nearly as fine.” And she held up the princely gíth cup so it could catch the pale lantern light, causing it to glow slightly, like a pearl.
But Kío En knew that this was precisely the set his wife had gifted her. And he could see by her strange expression that she also knew. She had begun, like the ministers in the king’s court, to speak of something without speaking of it. Focusing intently on his sister-in-law’s guarded expressions, he began to consider her alternate meaning.
To begin with, he asked, “What happened to the one my wife gave you?”
“It was broken,” she answered immediately. “I’m not sure what happened. I found the pieces shattered in their box. Three of the beautiful gíth cups, though the carafe had not been broken.”
“I am sorry.” Her meaning was still not clear to him but he believed he could begin to feel the edge of it.
She added, “Do you know? The other day I was trying to remember: Did that set have only three cups? Or was it actually four?”
Kío En looked at the cups and furrowed his brow. He distinctly remembered that three cups and a tall carafe — the very carafe there — had comprised the set. This because his wife had remarked upon giving it to her that she ought to use it whenever the two of them visited her residence. Three cups for three people.
She said, “It was four, wasn’t it?”
He looked again at Lŭ Lin’s sharp gaze. Four cups of princely gíth could, perhaps, refer to the four little princes, of whom she was the official guardian. They stared for some time at each other’s silent faces. Was she trying to indicate to him that something had befallen the four princes?
Finally he nodded once and said, “Yes, I remember. There were four in the set.”
“I wonder what’s become of the fourth?”
Kío En at last began to understand. And as he did, he again glanced at Sen Na who set her jaw and nodded at him once. Three of the cups were broken, she had said, which indicated that three of the four princes were likely dead. The fire, it seemed, had not been a simple accident at all.
But the fourth? She indicated that it was lost?
He asked, “Perhaps you misplaced it somewhere in the residence?”
“No, I don’t think so. I doubt it’s even worth looking for it here. If it was in this house, I would have found it by now.”
“Are the rest of the cups really lost? They couldn’t be repaired?”
“I’m afraid they were all past repairing.”
He nodded. The other three little princes, then, were dead. The information shocked him, but he maintained his composure.
“Perhaps I can have a look around, see if a second pair of eyes might turn something up.”
Her face paled though her expression remained unchanged. She answered lightly, “No, no. You are much too busy to concern yourself with such trifles.” She held up her white hand weakly and stared at him, unblinking. He understood perfectly.
“But that tea set was gifted by my wife. I practically feel as though it is my responsibility.”
If she was right and the fourth little prince was missing, he had to do anything in his power to find him. But as he thought all these things, a hundred other questions filled his mind. Why hadn’t the king spoken of this? Was he protecting his power by pretending that nothing had happened to the Spring Courtyard? He had never known the king to be so furtive. In fact nothing about his behavior or Lŭ Lin’s in this regard made any sense at all. More to the point, perhaps, what exactly had befallen the Palace? Who would — or could — attack the Four Little Palaces?
“Well,” Lŭ Lin said softly, her brow creased, “there is one thing you could do, perhaps.”
“Anything,” he replied, a shade too eagerly.
She glanced at him, then her eyes flitted to the doorway behind the embroidered screen. Then back to him, and he nodded once.
She said, “Do you recall the little silver spoons that my sister included with the set?”
There had been no such spoons, Kío En knew. But if the tea cups were indeed meant to represent the four little princes, perhaps the spoons indicated the prince’s respective households. But how to confirm?
He thought for a moment, then said, “I think I remember them. The ones with the little green stones in the handles?”
Lŭ Lin’s eyes flashed for a second and she suppressed a smile. It seemed his guess was correct. “Yes, that’s them,” she said, “You see, I’ve misplaced one of them.”
“The others are accounted for?”
“Yes but they were ruined together with their cups, I’m afraid. I had to discard them with the rest. But I know one spoon remains. I saw it very recently, but I can’t seem to remember where.”
“Somewhere here?”
“Yes, I know it was here. I should certainly like to find it.”
“Perhaps it can lead you to the missing cup.”
Lŭ Lin frowned.
Kío En tried again: “Or perhaps if you find the spoon, that might solve the mystery of what happened to the rest of the tea set.”
At this Lŭ Lin smiled weakly. “Indeed.”
The entire room was suddenly lit brilliantly by a flash of cold lightning. Kío En flinched but Lŭ Lin remained perfectly still, even as the peal of thunder broke apart the stillness.
She said, “It was good of you to come. But you should return home quickly before the storm gets any worse.” With a warm smile she added, “In Na has never liked thunderstorms, ever since she was a child.”
He nodded. “Yes, you’re right. And I should leave you to rest.”
Her servants were nowhere to be seen as she and Sen Na walked with him back to the little vestibule. Although, he suspected that they were not far away. Sen Na opened the door and the three of them stood upon the porch as it rained heavily in the garden. He watched as Lŭ Lin gazed at the overflowing stream and its muddied banks. Then she looked at the little lantern-lit space where the attendant perched watching them indifferently.
“It has been pleasant,” she said warmly, turning to look at Kío En, “to speak of things that are of no importance.”
He clasped his hands behind his back and answered, “Oh, I don’t know. I can understand why you would cherish that tea set. After all, it was given to you by someone precious to us both. Even if it is just a little thing.”
Turning he reached for her one remaining hand. It was cold as ice when he clasped it, but she still used it to squeeze his own hand as strongly as she could. “We will see what we can do. Even if all we can find is one little spoon, that will be more than enough.”
The bushes nearby rustled, perhaps in the wind. Lŭ Lin noticed it too, her eyes flitted in that direction and then returned to him. With a smile, she shook her head so subtly even he barely saw it. As if warning him, he believed, not to call attention to it. Perhaps she knew who lurked in the shadows within her walls.
When finally he left her and departed her residence under the shelter of his umbrella, he couldn’t help but feel that he was leaving her in a very dangerous position, like he was abandoning her on a battlefield. Though, remembering the rustling sound, he thought perhaps she might still have other allies.
But he also felt a strong need to return to his own residence and to see his daughter with his own eyes. Having observed the situation inside the Grand Steward’s residence, Kío En was overcome with the sense that certain danger now surrounded him. Perhaps he wasn’t in danger himself, not in the same way Lŭ Lin was, but he still felt the desire to go home and see to the safety of his precious In Na.
He also needed to think. A great deal had been revealed to him tonight. And it would take some effort to understand it all.
Sen Na followed her mistress back into the residence. They returned to her glass receiving room where Lŭ Lin stood staring at her hazy reflection in the night-black windows.
“Where is she?” she asked in a whisper so quiet Sen Na thought at first it had been merely the wind.
She looked up into her mistress’s face and answered, just as quietly, “With the king, my lady. Bo Han Lăsoth was just here.”
“Was he?” After a moment, she smiled as if a thought had just occurred to her.
Sen Na took her mistress’s arm and led her back to her chair. She said, “Perhaps we can rely upon Lord Bo—”
Lŭ Lin quieted her with a glance. Then she sighed heavily and said aloud, “Bo Han Lăsoth is a traditionalist. To him, House comes before all. He has no real loyalty to the king.”
Wearily, she sat and leaned her head upon her left hand. It was late and she was tired. Sen Na considered how she might convince her to go to sleep.
She barely heard when her mistress whispered to herself, “If I had just listened to him…”
But then, Lŭ Lin took a deep, shaking breath and closed her eyes. “So be it,” she murmured. “It is in his hands now. There is nothing more I can do. For either of them.”
Or, if you’d prefer to leave a small, one-time token of support, you could:
I really enjoy the character descriptions that help one envision this lavish world of wealth and danger. One striking thing that makes the intrigue deeper is the way information is hard to obtain, subject to speculation and subtle hints, unlike our own impersonal information overload. It harkens a time when body language and facial cues were how people related. Every nuance of scene and conversation must be interpreted for basic social survival let alone thriving in the environment. Enemies around every corner and who knows which person to trust and which will betray them? A great read!
I love the conversation between Lu Lin and Kio En. It is a very clever conversation for Lu Lin to come up with on the fly, and thankfully Kio En is not dense enough to miss it. I wonder at all the minutiae mentioned, though.