Descendant of the Crane(76)

She ran. Just as she had that day in the gardens, she ran as if she could outstrip the terror of finding her father’s body. Then, the ground had been soft and squishy underfoot, summer nectar florid in her nose, tears in her eyes, and disbelief in her chest.

Now, anger drove the ground hard into her heels. She pounded down the tunnel. Flew past the branch she was supposed to take, stumbled blindly up a set of stairs, tripping more than once on her wet skirts, but never falling. The pathway narrowed. She didn’t stop, and her shoulders scraped against the stone.

The bottleneck widened abruptly, spitting her into an open space. Gasping, Hesina looked around, trying to regain her bearings.

She was in another cavern. Again, it was lit with torches, and again, the flames didn’t waver in the dank. Alkaline water and coppery earth staled the air—and the smell of something else.

A man-made tang…a piney spice with a hard-candy finish.

Varnish. The place reeked of varnish and cinnabar. It reminded Hesina of the throne hall, with its varnished dais of black lacquer and ruby-red cinnabar pillars.

Gingerly, she picked her way to the cavern walls and placed her hands on them. Her palms met cold, slick stone.

Soapstone. A whole expanse of it, utterly smooth except for the seam where one panel met the next, and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next—and the next.

Hesina jerked her hands away with a sharp intake of breath.

Twelve panels in all.

Only one twelve-paneled screen existed in the entire palace, and that was the reredos that rose tall behind the throne. If this was it, then that meant—

She took a step back.

—this place smelled like the throne hall because the throne hall lay beyond this wall.

Hesina had just entered the Eastern Palace complex undetected. Anyone could have done the same. Her heartbeat raced, and when the torchlight flickered, she spun, convinced that someone had snuck up on her.

But no one was there.

In the breathing silence, every song, every performance, every story told about the Eleven rushed back to Hesina.

They breached the city walls. They stormed the palace gates. They beheaded the emperor where he sat on his throne.

How? generations of scholars had asked.

Now she knew how.

She returned to the wall. Her legs weakened with disbelief. A hundred times, she must have sat with this screen at her back, and a hundred times, she’d dismissed it as yet another gaudy antique from the relic days. She never would have guessed what lay behind it. Neither had the last emperor. How shocked he must have been, when One of the Eleven materialized out of nowhere. Hesina could imagine the iron tang of his fear. She could taste it—because she’d bitten her cheek.

There was writing on the walls. She rubbed at her eyes; the words remained. Columns of characters, crawling down the soapstone like ants, the calligraphy shaky, as if the writer were unfamiliar with the strokes.

But Hesina knew them well. This was simplified Yan, the language of her era. Without realizing it, she’d already read the rightmost column.

TODAY, A RULER WILL DIE.

The crackling of the torches quieted. The distant tunnel wind sang to a stop. Woozy, Hesina leaned on the soapstone. Her forearms bracketed the words.

TODAY, A RULER WILL DIE.

She’d found him. The murderer was the writer of this line; no ruler of the new era aside from her father had “died” before his time. But she didn’t want to read on. It wasn’t too late to walk away and pretend she’d never seen this.

Knowledge is truth, Little Bird. Those who refuse to learn live in a world of falsity.

Hesina let out a sob of a laugh before choking down the tears. She’d believed him. Deceit was in her nature, but for her father, she had tried to be better. She’d chased the truth for him, even though it hurt. What reason did she have to chase it now?

To be better than him.

Her arms trembled as she pushed away from the wall.

To be better for no one but yourself.

Her spine twinged as she straightened.

TODAY, A RULER WILL DIE.

She took a deep breath and read on.


Nine says it must be my hand. I said that he’d be better suited for the task. That got a rare laugh out of him.

“I belong in the dark,” he said. “You belong in the light. I can end our villains, but you must end the era, starting with the emperor.”

I told him he wasn’t making any sense. Even now, writing this out in an attempt to clear my mind, I still don’t understand why it must be me. He claims the people will follow me because I have a good heart, but we both know Six has the best heart out of us all.

“It’s because of your childish idolization of the truth,” Two says. “This world has gone to rot. The throne needs someone pure.”

“It’s because you know what you want,” says Three, “and how to get it.”

“It’s because we believe in you,” says Six. “We were orphans and consorts and fallen princes. You gathered us and gave us something to live for. When we were reeling over our losses and on the verge of scattering, you held us together. You will do the same for the people.”

They make me feel like some sort of god. Maybe I am—I’m definitely not human anymore. But at least they know me, the real me. The people don’t—and won’t, not after I kill the emperor of their nightmares. I’ll be given a hero’s narrative. There will be songs and operas and epic poems composed for this very moment, and none of them will mention the scared boy, the shaking boy, the boy who wanted to drop his too-heavy sword and walk away.