Chapter 3

THREE THE GIFT OF THE CUB 1 SWIFT-FOOTED IALU By the time Ialu laid his piece of sandpaper on the floor, the afternoon sun slanting through the window had turned the color of pale honey. He ran a finger softly along the top of the meticulously sanded drawer and sensed from the touch that it was good. This was the last one. He picked it up and slid it into the dresser. It slipped in snugly, as though sucked inside, and the bottom drawer popped out with a puff of air. Ialu smiled. It was done. He took the broom from where it leaned against the wall and began sweeping up the wood shavings on the floor. Just then he heard a knock at the door. “It’s me, Yantoku, the cabinetmaker. I’ve come to deliver your order.” Although Ialu recognized the gruff voice of his foster brother, he did not unlock the door immediately. Instead, he stood inside the entrance, listening intently for anything out of the ordinary. Only then did he slowly open the door. A large man with a ruddy complexion stepped inside bearing lumber in his arms. No sooner had he entered than Ialu closed the door and latched it firmly. Yantoku raised his eyebrows. “As cautious as ever,” he said in a teasing tone. “There’s no one out there, you know.” Ignoring this remark, Ialu led him into the back room. When Yantoku saw the chest of drawers, he laid his load on the floor and went to kneel in front of it. Stroking the wood with knowing hands, he checked the workmanship. Then, still kneeling, he looked over his shoulder at Ialu and grinned. “Nicely done. No one would doubt me if I told them I’d made it myself. Impressive work from someone who isn’t even a carpenter by trade.” “That’s because it’s just a hobby,” Ialu responded quietly. “I can work on it as long as it takes to make it right.” Yantoku stood up, one hand still resting on the dresser. “Right, then. Let’s leave it at that. Otherwise I won’t be able to hold my head up as a carpenter.” He stroked the top once more and then cocked an eyebrow at Ialu. “Are you sure you won’t take any payment for it? Work of this quality would fetch at least ten large gold pieces, but you only let me pay for the materials. Don’t you want even some of the profit?” Ialu shook his head. “I don’t do this for the money. I do it because I like making things. It gives me pleasure, and if it brings you some profit at the same time, what could be better?” Yantoku frowned. The room in which they stood was empty but for the dresser and Ialu’s tools. Dust motes drifting through the air glinted in the late afternoon sunlight. It seemed to him more like a prison cell than a home. He could not help feeling sorry for his foster brother. But I bet I’m the only person in the world who pities a member of the Se Zan, the impenetrable shields who guard the royalty … Ialu was the third-born son of Yantoku’s neighbor. He and Yantoku had been raised like brothers among the tumbledown shacks on the back streets behind Sakkala, home to the poorest craftsmen in the royal capital. Ialu’s mother had been sickly, and all her children but two, Ialu and his younger sister, had died soon after birth. When Ialu was born, she had been unable to nurse him, and Yantoku’s mother, who had just given birth to Yantoku, had suckled them both, holding one in each arm. Though he was a man of few words, Ialu’s father had been a skilled cabinetmaker who had won favor with the master carpenter. If things had gone on without incident, Ialu would have inherited his father’s trade, taken a bride, and been raising his own kids by now, just like Yantoku. The day that had so radically changed Ialu’s life remained vividly imprinted on Yantoku’s memory. They had been eight at the time. He and Ialu had left home a little before noon bearing packed lunches for their fathers. The two men were working on the interior of a new house being built for a rich merchant. Ordinarily, the boys would rather have played than run errands, but delivering lunch was an important task, and they headed straight for the west side of town where the wealthy merchant class lived. It was a fine day, and the sun was hot. Puffy white clouds swelled in the blue sky, and the trees that lined the boulevards of the west district cast dark shadows against the white walls of the manors. Ialu and Yantoku had just turned a corner and come into view of the house where their fathers were working when the ground heaved under their feet and began to sway violently, as if some giant creature were shaking itself beneath them. The boys tumbled to the ground. Crawling on all fours, they raised their heads and saw the building begin to tilt. Then, with a shriek of wood against stone, it collapsed. A cloud of dust rose in the air, enveloping the wreckage. Only when the dust began to clear did the two boys come to their senses and run toward the heap of rubble. Choking on the dust that clogged their noses and throats, they screamed for their fathers as though half crazed. Yantoku’s father had been lucky. He had been standing in the garden when the quake hit. Though covered in a shroud of ash-like dust, he had escaped with only a few scrapes. Ialu’s father, however, lay buried beneath the debris. The crimson blood spurting from his nose and mouth seemed strangely vivid against his dust-smeared face. Ialu froze at the sight. Then he shouted, “I’ll get a doctor!” and, turning on his heel, broke into a run. Taken by surprise, Yantoku turned to race after him, but he could not catch up. Ialu ran as if a fire was on his tail, and the distance between them only widened. Still, Yantoku managed to keep him in sight until he reached the main avenue. Just as Ialu’s small figure stepped into the street, disaster struck. A horse galloping down the road stumbled on a crack caused by the quake. It crashed to the ground, upsetting the carriage behind it. A horse-drawn coach careening down the street from the opposite direction collided with the overturned carriage in a thunder of noise and slowly toppled over. Yantoku stared in horror. Ialu was right in the path of the falling coach. Just as it came down on top of him, he kicked the ground with his right foot and pitched forward, twisting his body. Somehow he managed to slip through the tangle of harnesses and wreckage and shimmy over the belly of a horse where it lay convulsing on top of the heap, its legs flailing in the air. Then he leapt off onto the other side and disappeared from sight, leaving Yantoku staring in amazement. Yantoku was not the only one who had witnessed Ialu’s spectacular feat. A member of the Se Zan just happened to be passing and saw it too. Impressed, he hunted Ialu down patiently, arriving at his house five days later while the family was still in the midst of the funeral rites. The elegantly garbed Se Zan offered Ialu’s astonished mother enough money to support the family for life, in return for apprenticing Ialu. To his mother, who had lost the family’s breadwinner and been left with a baby and an eight-year-old son, this proposal seemed their only hope. The Se Zan were living shields, existing solely to protect the Yojeh and her family. To guard against any vulnerability, they were forced to sever all ties with their own families and were forbidden to marry. Duty required these solitary warriors to lay down their lives for those they guarded. In return, regardless of the rank into which they had been born, they were treated as nobility and given the honor due to the Yojeh’s most loyal subjects. Those who gave their sons into service as Se Zan were rewarded with a large sum of money. Ialu’s mother had had no choice but to agree. Yantoku could still remember the day Ialu had left the home in which he had been born, his hand held firmly by the Se Zan. Yantoku had wept loudly, but Ialu had not uttered a sound. Biting his lip, eyes on the ground, he had left the alleys of Sakkala without once looking back. They did not meet again until twelve years later. By then, Yantoku was a cabinetmaker in his own right, and he and his father ran a small shop. One day, Ialu had walked in by chance. When he realized who had come out to serve him, his expression hardened, and he made to leave, but Yantoku grabbed his arm. Fortunately, his father had not been in the shop that day, and the apprentices had gone off for lunch. He pleaded with Ialu to stay, promising that he would not tell anyone that they were foster brothers and offering to give him news of his family. Thus began their clandestine friendship. Ialu, however, appeared to regret having given in to Yantoku’s pleas and remained vigilant about concealing their friendship. When Yantoku had teased him for his caution, Ialu had responded without anger. “In my world, compassion is viewed as a weakness that can be used to one’s own advantage. There are people out there who would use your life and the lives of your loved ones to bargain with me if they knew that we were close. If you value your family’s happiness, don’t get involved with me any more than you need to.” The last twelve years of Ialu’s life must have been completely different from mine, Yantoku thought. Although there were traces of the old Ialu around his mouth and eyes, at times he exhibited a coolheadedness that reminded Yantoku of a well-honed blade. Ialu removed his sawdust-covered tunic, folded it and placed it by the wall. Then he turned to Yantoku. “I’ll be off duty again in ten days. You can come and get the dresser then, around noon. Bring an apprentice to help you if you want. But make sure you don’t tell him my name.” “I know, I know. You don’t have to keep warning me … Are you leaving for work at this time of day?” Ialu nodded as he pulled an indigo cloak, the kind worn by artisans, off a hook on the wall. He never wore his uniform until he was inside the palace. Instead, he dressed as a craftsman, his face concealed beneath a conical straw hat, and mingled with the other tradesmen who frequented the palace. As Yantoku turned to depart, leaving Ialu to change, he heard Ialu say, “Take care.” Yantoku grinned. “Of course.” The sky deepened slowly to the blue of twilight, leaving a single streak of sunlight on a cloud. The smell of grilled fish and smoke from the kitchens hovered in the narrow lane through which Ialu walked. He stepped out into a broad avenue crowded with people heading home from work and rowdy groups of men off for a drink at the taverns in Lasan district. Passing an alleyway, he heard shouting. A cluster of men were cursing and kicking a huddled form in the shadow of a stack of wine barrels. A youth of just fifteen or sixteen lay curled up on the ground to protect his stomach from their feet. Ialu frowned but slid his eyes away, pressing his lips tightly together. Just then he heard familiar footsteps threading their way through the throng. He continued on without slackening his pace. “Hey!” A hand grasped his shoulder. He came to a halt and turned to face a tall, powerfully built man dressed much like him. The faint scent of the perfume used by women in the red light district still clung to his clothes. It was his colleague, Kailu. He regarded Ialu with raised brows. “You’re coldhearted. Are you just going to pretend you don’t see that?” Ialu returned his gaze coolly without responding. Kailu clicked his tongue in disgust. “So that’s how it is. Well, I don’t need your help anyway.” He turned on his heel, but Ialu grabbed his elbow. “Kailu, leave it.” Kailu glared at him. “I’m off duty. Don’t try to stop me.” Ialu shook his head. “We are never off duty.” The blood rose to Kailu’s face, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. “Tomorrow the Aluhan arrives in the capital,” Ialu continued. “Anything could happen. Surely you haven’t forgotten Ossalu? If you still insist on going despite that, then do as you please.” He removed his hand from Kailu’s elbow, and Kailu shook his arm in irritation. “I’m not so stupid as to let an assassin disguised as a hoodlum kill me like Ossalu,” he snapped. Still, he turned away from the alley and fell into step beside Ialu. The two walked silently up the gentle slope toward the palace. The forest surrounding it was covered in a soft halo of new leaves backlit by the dwindling glow of dusk. As they walked, Kailu blurted out, “What a lousy way of life.” At this, Ialu came to an abrupt halt. Kailu, who had kept on walking, turned to look at him. “What?” “If you don’t like it,” Ialu said in a low voice, “then get out. Now. Renounce your vows. You can’t possibly do the work of a Se Zan with any trace of doubt in your mind.” “But—” Ialu cut him off. “There’s no point in continuing if you feel that way. You’ll just be miserable, right?” Kailu returned his gaze steadily. “What about you, then?” A sad smile touched Ialu’s eyes. “Me? I’ve killed too many people to let myself doubt now.” Silenced, Kailu followed him. He had never heard his comrade talk like this before. Ialu had a quiet air, reminiscent of a forest in winter. When dressed in tradesmen’s clothes, he looked like nothing more than an ordinary craftsman. No one passing them now would ever suspect that this was the swift-footed Ialu. But as soon as he was on duty, he became an agile warrior. True, he had killed more men than any other Se Zan … But that was because he was the first to notice danger and therefore the first to dispatch an adversary. The assassin was usually dead before anyone else realized what was going on. There were times when Kailu was sure his comrade must have eyes in the back of his head. Not having killed yet, he had envied Ialu’s prowess. Until now. In the dying light, the long shadows of the trees fell across Ialu’s back. Kailu watched him wordlessly as they walked toward the palace. 2 THE YOJEH AND THE ALUHAN Shunan felt the breeze caress his cheek as he descended from the carriage. As it passed, it rustled the newly unfurled leaves on the branches, causing the light to shimmer. Before him spread a forest so silent it was hard to believe the bustle of the city lay just behind him. Birds warbled somewhere deep within. This was the Immaculate Forest—the forest where the Yojeh resided—and there was something decidedly sacred about it. Standing on the white path that led to the palace, Shunan placed both palms to his forehead and bowed low in reverence. His thoughts were disturbed by the sound of his father clearing his throat. Assisted by a member of his retinue, the Aluhan stepped down from the coach and, turning his sullen face toward the palace, bowed formally. From this point onward, not even the Grand Duke was permitted to ride in a coach: He must proceed on foot. He set off with his son down the stretch of white sand, his guards walking in front and behind. A large procession of attendants followed silently, bearing gifts of precious metalwork, elaborate brocades, and clocks ornamented with coral and pearl, brought all the way from the seat of the Aluhan to celebrate the Yojeh’s birthday. The soldiers who had accompanied the Grand Duke thus far remained behind with heads bowed as the procession disappeared into the forest. The white sand path glittered in the sunlight that filtered through the trees. After walking for some distance, the palace finally came into view. It was a maze of buildings, extending far behind the visible façade, with walls of huge planks of unvarnished wood and connecting passageways roofed in blue ceramic tiles. There were no ramparts nor any gates or guards to protect it. Each time he came, Shunan found himself in awe. Although rebuilt only fifty-seven years ago, it looked ancient, more like a shrine to a god than the seat of a ruler. The palace in which he had been born and raised was at least ten times the size, and its luxurious interior had been crafted by the finest artisans. A deep moat guarded its walls, vigilant soldiers manned its stout ramparts round the clock, and forbidding gates towered at its entrance, impressing upon any would-be enemies the castle’s impenetrability. With his eyes fixed on his father’s back, Shunan’s thoughts turned to what he knew must be on his father’s mind. The heavy sacrifices made by generations of faithful Aluhan for its protection were the sole reason the Yojeh’s palace required no defenses. “The Yojeh’s subjects,” his father often said, “dismiss us as upstart warriors tainted with blood. But without us, they could enjoy no peace nor remain safe from the aggression of their neighbors. We willingly ride the Toda, which they consider unclean, and defile ourselves with blood, so that this country may prosper and the Yojeh may live enshrined in this sacred forest without sullying her hands.” This, Shunan knew, was true. Long ago, when the Yojeh’s ancestor had first appeared, the kingdom had been on the verge of extinction. The crown prince of that era had feared his younger brother would rise up against him when he took the throne, so he slew him and massacred his followers. His nephew, however, escaped, and when he reached manhood, he led the nobility against the king to avenge his father’s death. The two sides were evenly matched, and many died in the prolonged struggle, including the king and his nephew. When the land teetered on the brink of destruction and the people’s spirits lay broken, Jeh, the Royal Ancestor and the first Yojeh, crossed the Afon Noah into the corpse-strewn plains. Wherever Jeh went, a Royal Beast hovered protectively overhead, and whenever she came to a river, the Toda bowed their necks before her, forming a bridge for her to cross. To the local people, this tall woman with her shining hair and golden eyes appeared to be a noble goddess. They prostrated themselves before her and begged her to stay and live among them. This plea she granted. Like a loving mother, she gathered together all the nobles, craftsmen, merchants, and farmers who had been scattered by the war, and rebuilt the country from its foundations. This was the beginning of the Divine Kingdom of Lyoza. Peace reigned for many long years, lasting until the rule of the Royal Ancestor’s great-granddaughter. Then, the neighboring kingdom of Hajan rose up to invade Lyoza. Jeh’s great-granddaughter, however, refused to fight back. Under the law of the gods, it was an unpardonable sin to stain one’s hands with another’s blood; anyone who violated this law was forbidden to pass into the paradise of Afon Aluma after death. Rather than let her people suffer the consequences of such a heinous crime, the ruler offered to surrender herself to the enemy. One of her retainers, however, stopped her. This was Yaman Hasalu, Shunan’s ancestor. “Even should you give your life,” he reasoned, “your sacrifice would be meaningless, for the Hajan will never understand why you would do this. It is your people who will suffer if the Hajan conquer us. Allow me to accept defilement in order to defend this country. I swear I will live thereafter in exile so that no stain shall fall upon the royal capital. For the sake of your people, I beg you to give me the divine treasure, the Toda Whistle.” Deeming his intentions to be sincere, Jeh’s great-granddaughter granted his wish. Yaman led his troops to the great Amasalu River and used the whistle to ride the Toda through the waters and over land to destroy the Hajan army. Once he had vanquished the enemy, he kept his vow and, without returning to the capital, went to live on the other side of the mountains so that Lyoza would remain undefiled. Touched by his faithfulness and sincerity, the ruler of Lyoza interceded on his behalf, granting him laku la, absolution for deliberately choosing defilement to protect the lives of others. Through her intercession, those who fought to save their people could now be cleansed at death and enter Afon Aluma, wrapped in pure light. She bestowed upon Yaman the title of Aluhan, Grand Duke, and allowed him to govern a region across the mountains. The first cracks in this relationship emerged in the time of Yaman’s grandson, Oshiku Hasalu. Oshiku reared herds of Toda and organized the Toda Riders into powerful fighting units. With these, he subdued neighboring countries, expanding his domain and accumulating wealth. Each time he swallowed up another kingdom, he sent the ruler of Lyoza gold, silver, and jewels, as well as many rare and precious treasures. The ruler, however, considered such trophies to be unclean and refused to accept them. She also commanded Oshiku to stop invading other lands, but he refused to obey. The countries surrounding Lyoza, he argued, were just waiting for a chance to attack. True peace and security could only be obtained by subjugating these territories and spreading the belief that killing was a sin. Besides, more territory would give the people access to a greater variety of goods, and more subjects would mean greater prosperity for all. Although at first the ruler of Lyoza dismissed this reasoning as dangerous, she could not ignore the fact that many of her subjects were secretly migrating across the mountains. With its broad and fertile plains crossed by numerous rivers, the Grand Duke’s territory covered the best farmland, and under his policies, bustling towns sprang up and trade thrived so that even the common folk prospered. In comparison, the land where the ruler lived was mountainous, harvests were erratic, and trade was far from robust. When she learned that some of her people were almost starving, the ruler relented. She stopped rejecting Oshiku’s gifts and instead accepted them, to share with those who lived on her side of the mountains. At some point, the people began to call this army-less ruler the Yojeh. They continued to worship her as the soul of their country—the pure one who brought the kingdom divine protection. For this reason, her subjects referred to the goods they gave her as “offerings” rather than as “tax.” In her hands rested the authority to make final judicial decisions, and it was she who commanded district and central officials and who governed affairs of state. It was the Aluhan, however, who controlled the army and held the wealth of the country in his grasp. With this division between authority and power, friction was inevitable. Those who lived in Aluhan territory had come to see themselves as the backbone of the country. After all, it was they who shed their blood and deliberately accepted defilement so that Lyoza could prosper. It rankled that the officials dispatched by the Yojeh and the people living in her territory, despite being noticeably poorer than those in Aluhan territory, looked at them with disdain and called them “Wajaks” for staining their hands with blood and intermarrying with those they conquered. Discontent gave birth to a rebel group known as Sai Gamulu, literally “blood and filth,” whose members wished to see the Aluhan made king of Lyoza. They blamed the divisions in the country on the Yojeh and saw her as an obstacle to development. To eliminate her and place the Aluhan on the throne, they believed, was the only road to prosperity for the Divine Kingdom. It was a thwarted assassination attempt that finally caused the Yojeh to acquire her own bodyguards. The incident occurred during the reign of the Yojeh Sheemiya, grandmother of the current Yojeh, Halumiya. Had it not been for a faithful servant, who shielded her from an assassin’s blow at the cost of his own life, the Yojeh would have died. Worse still, her attackers set the palace on fire. Once again, it was through the desperate efforts of loyal servants that she managed to escape alive. Three-year-old Halumiya was rescued along with her, but the Yojeh’s daughter, Meemiya, perished in the flames. This tragedy shook the kingdom of Lyoza to the core. It signaled the end of an era in which the division between authority and power lay hidden beneath a veneer of friendship, and exposed the strained relationship to the light of day. The fact that anyone would want their ruler dead shocked not only those who lived in Yojeh territory, but also those who lived in Aluhan territory. While they might resent being looked down upon, the majority revered the Yojeh as a pure and selfless descendant of the gods. The Yojeh summoned the Aluhan, Lamashiku, to her palace and announced that if he insisted on killing her people and trying to control the country for personal gain, she would revoke laku la. This caused Lamashiku to tremble with fear. To die without being cleansed from defilement was to be condemned to Hikala. And besides, he, too, revered the Yojeh. The Aluhan already had wealth and power. While he might covet the throne, he knew that without the support of the gods, kingship would be far too heavy a burden for him to bear. He swore to the Yojeh that he had no ambition to rule and no connection with the Sai Gamulu. In fact, he vowed to hunt down and execute those misguided souls. But the Sai Gamulu could not be rooted out. Like a rotting swamp in which rank foam oozes to the top, sympathy for the cause continued to fester beneath the surface. The invisible group of assassins survived like a smoldering fire, slipping beneath the blanket intended to smother it only to burst out elsewhere. Its members swore an iron oath never to reveal their allegiance to it, even on pain of death. People from all walks of life, from farmers and merchants to the Yojeh’s own retainers, were rumored to have joined its ranks. The diverse backgrounds of those who died trying to kill the Yojeh seemed to verify this. The movement was also intimately connected to the nobility and high-ranking officials. For those hindered from increasing their wealth because the Yojeh judged such intentions to be impure, the Sai Gamulu were very convenient assassins. Clearly, the awe in which the Yojeh was held as the descendant of the holy one who first crossed the Afon Noah was no longer enough to protect her. Sheemiya therefore chose from among her most faithful servants those who excelled at martial arts, and assigned them to protect her and her granddaughter Halumiya, the future Yojeh. This was the origin of the Se Zan. Shunan was acutely aware of where he stood in the history of his country, and of the responsibility he was expected to bear. As the eldest son, he must succeed his father as the Aluhan. The brooding face of his younger brother, Nugan, left behind in their castle, flitted through his mind. Though Nugan never said so, Shunan knew that he must curse his position as the younger son, fated to spend his life in service to his elder brother. But in this age, when dissension could be felt even among the common people, the rank of Aluhan was not as enviable as Nugan imagined. Though Shunan knew his father’s wishes and why he valued his eldest son, in his own heart, he harbored a different dream. As he followed the lady-in-waiting along the wooden corridor, moving ever deeper into the palace, a gleam of anticipation kindled in his eyes, and he could not keep his heart from racing. In a few moments, I’ll be in the presence of Princess Seimiya. Has she changed in this last year? In the dim light, Shunan, young heir to the Aluhan, prayed his father would not notice the blush that rose in his cheeks. When the Aluhan and his eldest son were ushered into the dining room, Yojeh Halumiya was already seated at a large dining table laden with food for the celebration. With her were her granddaughter, the princess Seimiya, and her nephew, Damiya. Ialu and the other Se Zan stood behind the Yojeh and the princess, their eyes sharp and alert, ready to protect them at a moment’s notice. The Yojeh and her family rose, smiling in welcome. “Aluhan, Shunan,” the Yojeh said. “Thank you so much for coming.” It was her sixtieth birthday, but despite her white hair, she stood tall and straight, and her skin was so smooth it was hard to believe her age. The Aluhan and Shunan knelt before her, pressing both palms to their foreheads as they bowed low. “Great Yojeh Halumiya, allow me to congratulate you on the anniversary of your birth,” the Aluhan said in his deep voice. “Thank you … Now please, let us dispense with protocol. Come to the table. They served the dishes a little too soon. We’ll have to hurry if we are to eat before the meal grows cold.” Shunan rose with his father and sat down in the place prepared for him. The Yojeh spoke kindly and easily to everyone, as if they were family. Her manner differed entirely from any of the rulers he had met during his travels with his father. She has no need to maintain her dignity through formalities, Shunan thought. Even when she smiled with the warm affection of a grandmother, something in her golden eyes naturally subdued people. Her granddaughter Seimiya had inherited this same air of being wide open to all those she met without allowing familiarity. But Seimiya, who had just turned sixteen and had yet to acquire the Yojeh’s life experience, had a fresh, almost precarious quality that reminded him of a butterfly newly emerged from its cocoon. Shunan suddenly noticed that the princess had turned her brown eyes and bright smile on him, and he felt his heart begin to beat wildly. The Yojeh looked him up and down, her expression gentle. “What a fine young man you’ve become, Shunan,” she said. “It’s hard to believe that the little boy you once were has already turned twenty. No wonder I’m growing old. You’re a head taller than your father, too.” “Thank you,” Shunan responded, feeling nervous. “I passed Father in height three years ago.” Damiya, the Yojeh’s nephew, said with a grin, “You’ve grown in more than body, Shunan. The look you gave Seimiya just now is proof that you’re a man.” It was just the sort of remark Damiya would make. He loved to make light of everything, but his words wiped the smiles from the faces of Shunan and his father. The Aluhan turned to him with frowning eyes and opened his mouth to speak when Seimiya said in a clear, light voice, “You know what Uncle Damiya is like, Shunan. Don’t pay any attention. He just loves to tease. I’ve told him a hundred times to stop, but he never listens.” With this she glared at Damiya, who merely smiled and raised his eyebrows. The rank of Yojeh was passed from mother to daughter—a tradition derived from the first royal ancestor, the tall, stately woman who had come from beyond the Afon Noah. Thus, even though he was the Yojeh Halumiya’s own nephew, Damiya could never succeed to her position. Far from being troubled by this fact, however, he appeared to relish the carefree nature of his standing. Though close to thirty, he remained single. Tall and handsome and fond of women, he was notorious for his affairs, not only with aristocratic widows but also with common maids. Yet even should such dalliances result in the birth of a daughter, no one but Seimiya’s daughter would have the right to become the next Yojeh. Damiya used his relatively unfettered position to advantage, traveling widely in place of the Yojeh. He had visited the Aluhan’s castle many times. His observations were extremely helpful to the Yojeh in making decisions. The Yojeh’s line produced mysteriously few offspring, only one or, at the most, two children. Seimiya was the only daughter of Halumiya’s only daughter. She had lost both parents ten years ago in an unfortunate accident when their carriage had crashed into a tree, and since that time, her grandmother, the Yojeh Halumiya, had raised her as if she were her own daughter. Whereas Halumiya was broad-minded and decisive, Seimiya was more reserved and inclined to mull things over carefully. Damiya was the one person with whom she could relax. Although he was, accurately speaking, her cousin rather than her uncle, they were on such comfortable terms that she called him “Uncle.” Damiya might appear flippant on the surface, but he was quick-witted and adroit at drawing out those things that Seimiya found difficult to confide in her grandmother. He would point out an aspect that she had not considered and turn her worry into laughter. He insisted that one was bound to find a better solution by being optimistic and carefree than by worrying all the time. But Seimiya could not adopt such an easygoing attitude—not when she considered the damage that she, as the designated future Yojeh, could cause to the entire nation by a single mistake in judgment. Nor could those around her help being cautious in the way they treated her. The man she married would be the father of the next Yojeh, and therefore the Aluhan could not dismiss Damiya’s jest lightly. Scowling, he gave Damiya a hard stare. “It’s true my son is now a grown man. No man could look upon the princess’s beautiful face and not be affected. But I’ll have you know that my son knows his place.” Halumiya sighed. “Of course, Aluhan. We’ve never doubted that. Come,” she continued brightly, “let’s think of other things. It’s my sixtieth birthday after all—although I’d rather not announce my age very loudly.” She turned to her chamberlain. “The preparations must be ready by now. Open the big window.” The chamberlain raised his head and signaled to the servants aligned on the south side of the banquet room. The window opened with a loud noise, and the bright spring light flowed into the room. Shunan squinted his eyes against the glare. Petals fluttered into the room, carried on the cool breeze. The sasha trees that lined the edge of the enormous garden were in full bloom, their branches bowing under a profusion of delicate white flowers. The whole garden was bathed in a soft light, as if to celebrate the sixtieth birthday of this frank old woman born in the spring so many years ago. 3 THE GIFT OF THE CUB A banquet had been laid out in the garden on tables set in a semicircle facing the hall. There, the many nobles who had gathered to celebrate the Yojeh’s birthday were seated in order of rank. Food-laden plates were being carried to the tables, and the assembled guests were enveloped by the delicious aroma, which mingled with the fragrance of the flowers. A white felt carpet had been spread over the lawn in the center of the garden where graceful maidens waving pink silk ribbons danced to the lively accompaniment of a band of musicians. The capital’s best jesters had also been gathered, drawing laughter with their banter and keeping the party well entertained. Evening approached, and the Golden Hour arrived, when the world was bathed in a golden glow. Dawn and sunset represented the boundary between the Time of Life and the Time of Death; that point in time when spirits were most fulfilled. The musicians and dancers withdrew, and the white carpet was removed. A solemn mood fell over the banquet. The Yojeh rose and stepped up onto the broad dais that overlooked the garden. The people bowed their heads. Raising her arms wide, she closed her eyes and began reciting a prayer of gratitude to the gods who ruled heaven and earth for protecting her for sixty long years. When she opened her eyes, the sound of a flute could be heard from deep inside the garden. Everyone turned to look as several strong men appeared pulling a huge cart. It rumbled as it rolled into sight. More carts followed until sixteen carts had formed a line, leaving ample space between each one. The crowd stirred, and those sitting in the back rose partway out of their seats, straining to see the creatures within. Sixteen Royal Beasts, their wings catching the golden light, faced the Yojeh. Their feet were chained securely to the carts and, although they occasionally flapped their wings, they did not fly into the air. Even when raised from birth by human hands, Royal Beasts could never be tamed. Yet captive beasts never flew, even after their wings were fully formed. They simply sat there, awesome and silent, emitting an aura distinct from any other beasts. The fact that their handlers stood alert and ready to use the Silent Whistle at any time was because they knew only too well just how fearsome they could be. There was no guarantee that they would not rip their chains asunder should something upset them. All the guests at the banquet had seen a Royal Beast before, yet today the murmur of the crowd was louder than usual. There was a cub among the others. It seemed very young, still covered in downy fur and only as tall as the bellies of the mature Beasts on either side. It appeared to be very uneasy. Brought to an unfamiliar place, it now found itself exposed to the eyes of many strangers. It flapped its wings repeatedly and kept turning its head, gazing around anxiously. Putting down his glass, the Yojeh’s nephew Damiya walked over to the Yojeh and bowed. “Most honorable Aunt, please accept this birthday gift from your unworthy nephew.” Her eyes still on the beast, the Yojeh murmured, “So you are the one who captured this cub.” “Yes. I present it to you with a prayer for a long-lasting reign.” The Yojeh nodded. “Thank you.” Ialu watched the entire banquet as though he were gazing at a moving picture. It was a method he had acquired naturally once he began guarding the Yojeh as a Se Zan. Mentally he stepped back and opened himself to everything around him, never letting any single point capture his attention. When he allowed himself to feel the whole picture like this, even in the midst of the confusion of this banquet, he could sense the instant something was out of place, like a post disturbing the flow of water in a stream. Today, too, he watched. But when the Royal Beasts appeared, he could not help but look at them, despite the knowledge that any distraction would give enemies an opening. They were beautiful beasts, yet the sight of them always inspired in him a feeling of pity. The young ones in particular wrenched his heart. Ialu slid his eyes away and glanced at the Yojeh. Her expression startled him. For a brief instant, pain crossed her face. Her look was not that of someone who found power in bending these Royal Beasts to her command. Feeling that he had seen something he shouldn’t, Ialu turned his gaze straight ahead and pulled himself together, opening his senses once again to his surroundings. The presence of the cub among the Royal Beasts disturbed the air. The other Beasts beat their wings and swayed from side to side, as if the cub’s anxiety was contagious. Each time the large wings flapped, blossoms fell from the sasha trees lining the edge of the garden and swirled in the air, concealing the crowd and the banquet in a blizzard of petals. Ialu frowned. He did not know what, but he had felt something … Wings rising, up, then down … A blizzard of petals … A space, wide open, just above the cub, which stood shorter than the beasts around it … He saw the Beast Handler on the far right raise the Silent Whistle to his lips. It made no sound, but in the next instant, the Royal Beasts stopped moving. Just as their wings froze, something glinted in the top of a sasha tree behind the beasts. Ialu nocked an arrow to his bow and leapt out in front of the Yojeh, shooting toward the tree. At the same moment, a shaft loosed by an invisible assassin nicked the cub’s shoulder and then sank into Ialu’s abdomen. The cub’s shrieks shook the garden as blood spurted from its shoulder. A black shadow fell from the sasha tree, landing with a thud like soft, ripe fruit. “Ialu!” He heard someone shout his name, but the arrow lodged in his stomach made it impossible to breathe. A cold sweat broke out on his face and he crumpled to his knees, his mouth open. He could not breathe. He grasped the arrow shaft in his hand and wheezed as air rattled in his throat. Everything seemed to be turning dark. “Ialu! Ialu!” Listening to his name, he slipped into the blackness. When his mind rose at last from a pit of spinning darkness, his body felt numb and leaden. Someone spoke. “Are you awake?” Ialu opened his eyes and focused on the owner of that voice. A doctor looked down at him. “Can you hear me?” Ialu blinked to show that he could. His stomach felt as stiff and hard as a board, and the pain was both dull and sharp. He did not feel like speaking. “You’re going to be all right,” the doctor said cheerfully. “You were incredibly lucky. The arrow lodged itself in the muscle without even grazing any of your organs. It must have lost some of its momentum when it struck the Beast … You owe that cub your life, you know.” He went on to explain how he had treated the wound and how long Ialu would need bed rest. Then he took a spoonful of tisane and tipped it into Ialu’s mouth. “Swallow that carefully, like you’re licking something, so that it doesn’t get into your lungs.” Ialu did as he was told, swallowing slowly, only to feel hot pain run through his stomach. The thought that he would have to endure this agony every time he tried to eat or drink was depressing. The doctor told him to get plenty of rest and then left the room. There must have been a sedative in the tisane, Ialu thought. He was overcome with a drowsiness that sucked him back down into darkness. As he descended that dark slope, the events before and after the assassin loosed his arrow played out in his mind. Those scenes bothered him. He had had a vague feeling that something was out of place at the time, and now it came back to him distinctly. The Beast Handler. Why had he blown the Silent Whistle? And why had his eyes been drawn to that particular Handler, the one on the far right of the Beasts? The last thing he remembered before everything dissolved once again into darkness was the blood spurting from the cub’s shoulder and the sound of its scream. While the Royal Beasts were being presented to the Yojeh on her birthday, the Toda were being paraded in the Aluhan’s castle far away. The Aluhan’s younger son, Nugan, had been left in charge during his father’s absence. He stood watching the parade, his back erect, leaning on the hilt of his favorite sword, a crude and hefty weapon, the tip of which rested on the ground. In the courtyard, the Toda changed battle formations to the beat of a drum. With each movement, dust whirled in the air and their sweet, musk-like scent wafted toward him. The heat of excitement stirred within him every time he smelled it. He found it far more thrilling to watch the Toda devour their prey than to embrace a woman. If only I could use the invincible Toda as I pleased. Then we’d have nothing to fear from any other country. As a child, Nugan had worshipped the first Aluhan, Yaman Hasalu, the hero who had arisen to save the Yojeh and this country, who had ridden the Toda across the plains to destroy the enemy, not for personal gain but for the ruler and her people. His way of life had been so pure and beautiful. The first time Nugan had heard the story, it had moved him to tears, and his whole body had trembled with emotion. Laying a large hand on his head and stroking his hair, his father had said, “Grow up to be like Yaman.” But at his coming-of-age ceremony, when Nugan had voiced his longing to emulate his hero, his father had snorted. “Are you still talking such nonsense?” he had jeered. Nugan vividly remembered the burning rage he had felt. Unable to direct his anger at his father, he had vented it in military training. The Yojeh’s nephew, Damiya, happened to be visiting. One day, while watching Nugan practice, he seemed to intuit Nugan’s feelings. Nugan could recall the day Damiya had first spoken to him as if it were yesterday. He had never really liked the man. While he respected the sacred blood that ran in his veins, he scorned his slender build and effeminate beauty, not to mention the fact that his frequent visits were attributed to a dalliance with one of the castle chef’s daughters. But that day, he had found Damiya to be far more broad-minded than he had ever guessed. “When people are exposed to corruption for so long,” Damiya had said with a friendly smile, “it’s only natural that they are ashamed to have lofty aspirations. What really matters is the degree to which you can maintain such aspirations despite the corruption around you … Nugan, don’t ever lose your admiration for Yaman Hasalu.” Nugan still treasured those words in his heart. How could anyone consider it immature to admire the life of Yaman Hasalu? Now he understood that his father and brother, far from being wise and noble, had ulterior motives. While on the one hand they condemned those assassins who sought to remove the Yojeh as disloyal, on the other, they let them carry on without interference. Obviously, they must secretly hope to take the Yojeh’s place one day. Nugan could not bear the thought that he, who had inherited the true spirit of the Aluhan, should be forced to live as their vassal for the rest of his life. If only I could hate my brother, he thought. Then he could dream of deposing him and succeeding to his station. But he loved Shunan. Although his brother’s patience toward his own selfishness and defiance frequently annoyed him, Nugan found it impossible to dislike him. Whenever he thought about hating his brother, his mind always went round in circles, as if he were lost in a maze. The demonstration finished and Nugan was turning to go back into the castle when a Toda merchant who had been waiting on the edge of the courtyard approached him. “Your pardon, my lord,” he said. Nugan stopped and looked down at him. “What do you want?” he asked. The man bowed low and held out a letter. “I was asked to deliver this message into your hands. Please take it.” Nugan frowned as he took it. It had no seal or other mark to identify the sender. He ripped it open roughly and spread out the neatly folded sheet of paper. As he read it, a strange light began to gleam in his eyes. By the time he had finished reading it, his face was white. He folded it up again and slipped it into the breast of his robe. Then he looked at the bearer. “And just what is your relationship with the sender?” he asked. “I humbly beg your pardon, but I am not permitted to speak of that.” Nugan glared at this impudence and said in a low voice, “I could have you apprehended and tortured to get that information from you, you know.” The man’s face stiffened, but he answered quietly, “If you did so, the sender would interpret that to mean that you reject his proposal. Is that what you wish?” Nugan clenched his fists. He must judge carefully where the path before him might lead. He must avoid making a hasty decision. Yet even so, he felt a rush of exhilaration, as if he had finally glimpsed an exit from the maze in which he had been trapped.