Descendant of the Crane(36)

“But there is news from the borderlands,” said her page as she returned to editing a memorial on infrastructure.

“Yes?”

“Another village is gone.”

Hesina’s brush streaked across the paper.

For a second, she couldn’t think or speak. She stared at the gash of black ink. Her irritation spiked—she’d spent an hour writing this—and she latched on to the simple emotion as the cosmos fell around her.

Another.

Another village.

“Where?”

“A millet hamlet twenty li south of the northern loess basin and fifty li west of Yingchuan,” said her page. “Population was numbered at around sixty.”

Was.

The brush dangled lifeless from her hand. Ink dripped onto the memorial, splattering like blood. “The people? The livestock?”

Her page gave a silent shake of his head.

Hesina’s vision dimmed. “My brother?”

“According to our most recent reports, the general is still fighting skirmishes along the southern borderlands.”

Then he was safe. As long as he was fighting, he was safe.

Hesina wrestled her panic back by the horns. She’d be playing into Xia Zhong’s hands if she lost her nerve. “How far has this news spread?”

“We intercepted the messenger dove the moment it arrived. The news is contained.”

For now. Hesina doubted it’d stay that way. They were moving along Xia Zhong’s ideal trajectory—one where suspicion against the Kendi’ans mounted day after day. The people wouldn’t brush off the disappearance of two villages.

She crumpled the memorial and fed it to the desk urn, taking measured breaths as the rice paper curled and blackened in the fire. “Set your best eyes and ears on Xia Zhong.”

“Xia Zhong…as in the Minister of Rites?”

At least she wasn’t alone in misjudging the minister. “Yes, the one and only. I want to know of his every movement and word.”

“Understood, dianxia. Is there anyone else you’d like monitored?”

What about the people close to the king? whispered Akira’s voice.

Flame scorched her fingertips. Hissing, Hesina dropped the memorial’s remnants.

“No.” She’d rather lose the mandate of the heavens than spy on her own family. “That will be all.”

She exited the throne hall shortly after her page. The time for indecision had passed. If Xia Zhong got to the suspects first, he’d drive the final nail into Yan-Kendi’an relations. She had to see the Silver Iris before then.

Back in her chambers, she fumbled with her commoner’s cloak while Ming’er stood by.

“It’s growing dark, my flower.”

“I won’t be gone long.”

She protested as Ming’er took the cloak from her, but the woman fastened the cloth buttons with much more finesse. “Be careful,” Ming’er said, notching the last one.

Hesina vowed she would. Then she hurried to the imitation mountain range in the centermost courtyard. The lichen-draped cliffs shielded her from any eyes as she jammed a reed into a hole in the pumice. The mountains split apart.

“Not so fast.”

Hesina whirled, brandishing the reed like a sword. “Show yourself.”

“Over here.”

She spun, but still nothing. Just shadows.

She’ll be protecting you from the shadows.

Hesina lowered the reed and sighed. Even when he wasn’t here, Sanjing still made her look the fool. “Mei.”

“Mmm?”

This time when Hesina turned, a lithe girl stood before her, outfitted from head to toe in black, from her formfitting hanfu to the many daggers sheathed at her waist. An equally black braid tumbled out from the side of her hood, and a black cloth covered most of her face, sparing only her russet eyes.

“Well, hello,” said Hesina, attempting to be amicable.

Mei didn’t reciprocate. “Bad time to be visiting the city.”

“Did I say I was visiting the city?”

“I’ve been warned of your tendency for lying through rhetorical questions.” Mei ignored Hesina’s snort of disbelief and scanned her figure. “No weapons.” She did a slow sweep of their surroundings. “No guards.”

“How long have you followed me?”

“Since your coronation.”

“And nothing bad has happened.”

“Yet,” said Mei, sounding all too similar to Sanjing.

Like general, like commander. With a huff of exasperation, Hesina took one of the daggers strapped to Mei’s broad-belt and tucked it into her own. “Better?”

“Not really,” said Mei, but she didn’t stop Hesina from entering the passageway.



The autumn harvest festival was mere days away. The streets should have been packed. Now was the time to stock up on sorghum wine and cooking oil, or hot zongzi sticky-rice triangles wrapped in lotus leaves and red-bean moon cakes stamped with chrysanthemum designs. But the market sector was deathly quiet when Hesina emerged from the abandoned tavern. Vendor stalls stood forlorn without their owners. No palanquins bobbed down the narrow streets. No mule drivers yelled at children in their way. The night was thick with smog, and when Hesina looked to the red-light district, her breath stopped.