Descendant of the Crane(81)

She trailed off as One-Eye uncovered his crushed nose. Blood ran, then dried, over his lips and chin.

“You’ll—”

Smoke curled into blue flame.

—Burn.

One-Eye winced as the fire crackled over his skin, but he didn’t put it out. “I know what you’re thinking, darling. This pain is nothing. You know what pains me more? Seeing my people grow content with their scraps, then lured by a queen into hoping. Do you know what happens when we hope?” He glanced at the cell. “We end up like her. She trusted your kind; she burned for it. A couple more like her, and we all burn.

“So thank you for coming here today.” He withdrew a linen-wrapped package from his cloak. “And thank you for saving me the trouble. I was never good at striking the flint.”

He tossed the package onto the lantern’s flickering remains. The smoke of burning linen immediately scratched at Hesina’s nose. A second smell reminded her of the annual spring festival.

The tang of newly minted banliang coins.

The warm musk of firecrackers.

Metal and black powder.

No.

Hesina ran for Sanjing, but her legs were pushing through tar. She screamed his name, trying to reach him, grab him, but she was so, so far away.

Then the distance vanished. Space and time snapped together, and she was flying, flying, flying, the dark bleached to white around her, its flesh sheared right off its bones.





III


TRUTH


In the beginning, One gave up his name. He killed the king and surrendered himself to the legend he was fated to become. As the years stretched on before him, never ceasing, he assumed other names and other roles. But he always cradled the true one in his heart. Sometimes, he said it, just to himself. In the twilight hours when the rest of the world forgot, he remembered.

He’d wake in the morning still as One. Bloodstained, revered One. He’d look at his kingdom from the terraces and see what it’d become.

He didn’t tell anyone else—not even his daughter—because he knew they wouldn’t be able to accept. It was unnatural. Unreal. People feared what they couldn’t grasp. He didn’t want to be feared.

But he should have thought of that before he burned the first sooth.





TWENTY-FOUR





TYRANTS CUT OUT HEARTS. RULERS SACRIFICE THEIR OWN.

ONE OF THE ELEVEN ON RULING


IT’S NOT ABOUT WHAT YOU WANT. IT’S ABOUT WHAT THE PEOPLE NEED.

TWO OF THE ELEVEN ON RULING

“Milady.”

“Na-Na.”

“Sister.”

“Sina.”

“Hesina.”

Their voices darted like minnows across the surface, their shadows barely filtering through the depths. Hesina reached for them as she plunged. Her life flashed through the spaces between her outstretched fingers.

She drowned.



“What happened to your knees, Little Bird?”

She poked at the swollen flesh and winced. “Mother made me kneel all night.”

“What for?”

“I wore white chrysanthemums in my hair.” Lilian said it was in style. Hesina was never trusting her again.

“What does white represent?” her father prompted gently.

“Death.”

“Yes. The absence of color is the absence of life. And if you witness enough death, it can take the color out of you too.”

“Has Mother seen a lot of death?”

“Yes. We both have.”

“But you’re not unwell.”

“We all handle loss differently.”

“Right,” she muttered. “Differently as in she’d be sadder if Sanjing died.”

Her father hoisted her onto his knee with a grunt of effort. “No one’s going to die.”

“But if I did, Mother wouldn’t cry. She doesn’t love me.”

“She does.”

“She doesn’t.”

“I love you. Isn’t that enough?”

“No,” she said, but inside, a small, less-stubborn part of her said yes.



“Fever…burning up…”

“…pulse erratic…”

“Bring…the needles…”



“Father,” she asked, putting on an imperial troupe mask, “do you believe people change?”

He donned a blacksmith’s arm guards. “Of course they do, Little Bird.”

She dug through his costume chest, looking for her favorite brocade cape. “Then do you believe the sooths have changed?”

“I’m sure they have.”

“Good. Because Scholar Niu says they did bad things three centuries ago, but he never listens when I say three centuries is an awfully long time.”



“We…wait much longer…”

“We can’t…decision without her…”

“But the people…”

“…More guards…”

“At this rate…revenue…lives…destroyed!

“…Wait until the queen wakes—”

“If she wakes!”

“She will wake,” said one voice above the others. Then softer, but steady with conviction. “Milady will wake.”