Descendant of the Crane(46)

But tonight, it occurred to Hesina that she envied the daughter for her courage. She’d confronted not one sun, but nine. Hesina could barely face her own destiny.

“What is destiny?” she wondered, half to herself.

Akira, the master of saying random things, wasn’t perturbed. “When you’re really good at something.”

Hesina hadn’t thought about it that way. Now that she did, it was depressing. She wasn’t good at much. A long, long time ago, she thought she had a knack for acting. She took to lying, and she preferred living in someone else’s skin as opposed to her own. But nothing squelched childish dreams quite like inheriting the throne. Learning to rule was an all-consuming pastime.

“What would you say I’m good at?” she asked Akira.

“Making lanterns.”

She glowered and he smiled, the corners of his mouth soft.

“The truth,” Hesina demanded.

“I didn’t say you were good at retrieving them.”

She snorted, then rather wished she hadn’t. It made her sound like a pig, and apparently she still had some dignity left to lose in front of Akira.

“What about you?” She blamed the fire for the warmth in her chest. “Were you a good robber?”

Akira poked a twig into the flames. “Good robbers aren’t caught.” The twig burned down to a nub, and he dropped it. “I knew someone who was better than the rest of us. His skill defined him. But one day he took too much. I haven’t found him since.”

“Was he a friend?”

“You could call him that.”

“You must miss him.”

He gave a noncommittal shrug that she understood better than any yes or no. Missing some people was like missing air. You did yourself no favors by wondering how you survived without them.

But tonight, Hesina let herself miss her father. She missed him. She missed him a lot. As the distant chords flowed into their little clearing, winding with the strings of her heart, she imagined herself riding on a chariot to face the Kendi’an Crown Prince. And later, when she slept, she dreamed she died, but her father read her back to life, and together they flew to the lunar palace on the backs of their giant cranes.



Of course, the next morning, she wasn’t a warrior. She didn’t ride a chariot in blazing glory to the Kendi’ans. She was a queen whose hands were shaking so badly she could barely dress herself.

“We counted six, dianxia,” reported the scout from the other side of the tarp, her shadow faint against the oiled fabric.

Hesina coached herself through putting on the many components of her clothes. Cross-wrap the ruqun. Strap the sword between the shoulder blades. Tuck in the bombs. Fasten the broad-belt, string on the royal seal, the jade mandalas, the trio of knotted cords. “Are you certain?”

“Yes,” the scout confirmed. “Six, excluding the Crown Prince himself. Four slaves, two advisors.”

Now the cloak. She drew the tassels tight at the hollow of her neck, hiding every speck of headless-dragon embroidery.

The Crown Prince had honored the terms of negotiation. No army awaited them. Maybe Hesina wouldn’t even need Sanjing’s help. She had every reason to relax. “Have you concealed your weapon?”

“Yes, dianxia.”

“Good.” Her voice didn’t betray her nerves, but her hands did, twitching, sweating. She curled them into fists. “We depart in ten.”

Overnight, black-and-scarlet tents had sprung up along the far lakeshore, pitched against the golden dunes. Kendi’an pennants of the same colors flew high, snapping in the desert wind.

One last time, Hesina checked that her sword and bombs were all in place. Then she marched herself and her entourage across the gritty plain to the largest of the tents. A Kendi’an advisor greeted her in the common tongue, instructed her guards to wait outside, and lifted the dragon-emblazoned flaps.

Yan Hesina wasn’t ready.

But she wasn’t Yan Hesina when she stepped into the Crown Prince’s lair. She was a warrior, a queen, fully costumed and ready to bluff her way to success.





FOURTEEN





NO HUMAN SHALL BE OWNED BY ANOTHER.

ONE OF THE ELEVEN ON SLAVERY AND SERFDOM


FREEDOM IS EVERYONE’S RIGHT.

TWO OF THE ELEVEN ON SLAVERY AND SERFDOM

She wasn’t the first queen to negotiate with Kendi’a. She wouldn’t be the last. Generations of Yan monarchs had tried to establish something more than a trade partnership with the land of sand and fire, and generations had failed.

It became obvious why, once Hesina’s eyes adjusted to the dim. Icy Ning was like an older sister, swampy Ci a younger cousin. Their differences existed, but they were reconcilable.

Kendi’a was oil to Yan’s water. Yan philosophers and literati lauded cooperation; Kendi’an ones encouraged competition. Yan aesthetics drew on complementary colors and motifs; Kendi’an ones took inspiration from the volatile nature of fire itself. This tent was a classic case: panels of red and black horsehide fanned the circumference, and bronze dishes filled with flames dangled from rickety chains hooked to the wooden crown above. Any moment now, a chain might break, a dish might fall, and the whole tent would burn. That would be one way to die—if Hesina didn’t asphyxiate herself first.