60

 

“This is laminated!” Thiswion said. “This is composite!”

It looked to Bulion like a broken hoop, or a fragment of a badly wrecked boat. He had been caught napping, quite literally—dozing in a garden in the middle of the afternoon like a spent old man. He was trying not to reveal that, blinking intelligently and searching for something useful to say.

His great-nephew was probably too excited to notice. “The middle is wood, of course. Yew. Heartwood and sapwood both, just like our bows, but then they laminate sinew to the back, see? And this is horn! Look at the craftsmanship! Isn’t it gorgeous?”

Thiswion was fairly gorgeous himself. He knelt on the grass in Nurzian trousers that flowed to his ankles in brilliant patterns of gold, scarlet, and peacock blue. His open vest was emerald, canary yellow, and a crimson that clashed horribly with the ginger of his beard and chest fuzz. The bushes behind him were smothered in dazzling purple blossoms. He wore an orange rose in his hair. In the glaring sunlight, it was all too much.

Color was part of the trouble with Chan San. The people dressed like butterflies. They covered their odd-shaped buildings in tiles and mosaics of every hue imaginable. Even the carts in the streets were painted marvels. Color rioted wherever one looked, like a convocation of parrots. The city also sounded wrong, with the jabbering Nurzian dialect. It smelled wrong, scented by unfamiliar spices and dishes. It was far too crowded and busy, packed with the swarming Nurzians themselves. Individually, Bulion would admit, they seemed pleasant enough people, but the mobs of brownish faces were alien to him.

“Um. Is it broken?”

“Broken? No, no, Uncle! It’s meant to be this shape. It’s recurved! Here, I’ll string it. You don’t have to keep it unstrung, either, not like our bows, but it’s bad manners to carry it through the streets like this.” Grunt! “There, see? Watch as I draw it, it bends back.”

Bulion kneaded his eyes and regarded the bow doubtfully. It still looked deformed. “Couldn’t shoot very far with a little thing like that.”

“Uncle! It’s laminated! And these horns on the end give you extra draw, see? An arrow from this will go through armor at three hundred paces, easy! I hit a gold at four hundred! And Jukion shot almost six hundred! No wonder even the Zarda feared the Nurzians.”

That was close to heresy, but Bulion was not in a mood for argument. His mouth tasted bad, he felt frowsy from sleeping in the heat. “When we get back to the valley, you’ll have to try making some bows like that.”

“Fates!” Thiswion said scornfully. “I couldn’t learn how to make a bow this good in ten years. But we need them! And their arrows… Listen, Uncle! The prices have gone ’way up with all the war talk, but the bowyers still have them for sale. I got a price on fifty of them, and five hundred arrowheads, and Wosion argued them down…” He paused, blue eyes suddenly showing worry.

“How much?”

“Um. Twelve hundred crowns. That’s about the same as two thousand Daling eagles, maybe a little more.”

Bulion looked away. The perfect cone of Mt. Psomb showed faintly in the hazy distance, above the green and purple rooftops. He could hear the rumble of carts and bellowing of camels from the street below the terrace. A bird he didn’t know was shrilling in the bushes behind him.

“I suppose you think I carry that around in my pouch in case I get an urge for a snack, do you?” The family coffers had held two or three hundred when he left.

Thiswion said, “Gwin…”

Gwin had a fortune waiting for her back in the temple at Daling, but she couldn’t reach it. Gwin could probably loot the treasury at Raragash when she went back there, if she went back there. Bulion could always ask his wife for money, he supposed. It wasn’t a crime to do that. He shouldn’t let his pride get in the way of a sensible thing like buying good bows. But begging money from a woman?

“There’s trouble coming, Uncle. The fort won’t do us much good if the Karpana come, will it?”

“Nothing will do us much good then, lad.”

“But supposing the Karpana don’t come, then there’s refugees to worry about, isn’t there? We could hold off a few hundred if we had bows like this! You can shoot these from horseback, Uncle! We could chase them away from the valley.”

It was all very true. The fort was folly and useless, and always had been, and poor Brankion was probably still sweating night and day over it. If the valley wasn’t threatened already, it would be before winter, and Bulion ought to be there, not lying around sleeping and doing nothing in Nurz.

“Where is Wosion?” he asked, for want of anything better to say.

“Down at the butts with the others. Even Wosion can shoot one of these bows, Uncle.”

“I’ll come and see how you’re doing in a little while.”

The gleam in Thiswion’s eyes died. “Yes, Uncle.” Not hiding his disappointment, he rose and stalked away through the rioting color of the bushes.

Bulion released a long sigh of frustration. He was too old to go adventuring around the world. It was a week since he’d left Raragash, about three since he’d seen the valley, but it felt like years. He’d never been away more than six or seven nights at a stretch in his life, and that only rarely. He was homesick.

He was bored. This was his fourth day in the Nurzian palace, and he had absolutely nothing to do. Every meal was a banquet, every day a holiday. He ate too much of the spicy food, drank too much of the sickly wine. Servants fawned on him, courtiers sneered at him—behind his back or not. He slept on silk sheets. He categorically refused to wear flowers in his hair like everyone else did. He was the Witch’s husband, and a tolerated nobody, too unimportant even to be in danger from the murderous intrigue that ebbed and flowed through the palaces of dying kings. He worried for Gwin, who had brought hope for Wung Tan’s life and therefore put herself in danger from the many factions that plotted in the shadows.

She was off somewhere healing the old fellow at the moment. There was nothing her husband could do to help. There was no need for him to be here at all. What he would like to do would be wander around these incredible palace gardens and take cuttings from all the fruit trees he had noticed: plums, peaches, apples, quinces, cherries, walnuts, apricots. The orchard could use those.

He wanted to go home. More than anything else in the world, he wanted to go home to the valley. He wanted to hear his great-grandchildren laughing, watch the crops grow, ride his horse around the hills and admire the view. He wanted Gwin there, too. He would dearly love to see Thiswion shooting his magical bow there, teaching all the other youngsters to be expert archers too.

Between Tharn Valley and Bulion Tharn lay war. Even the Academy’s expert couriers were not getting through the Cockpit, or so the smarmy Ching reported. Messages were going out and no replies coming back. Where a solitary rider on a fast horse failed, a party of farmers would be carrion for the crows. The land was sprouting dangers like weeds. The Karpana were not here yet; even the refugees fleeing before them had not arrived, but already law was breaking down and trouble oozing up out of the grass.

The world was changing. He was too old to learn new ways. He should have known his time had come a month ago, when his tooth had flared up. Then he could have died content with his life’s work. Now he might live to see it all torn down, the valley razed, his family butchered. Or worse… he might pine away in a strange land and hear about it happening, when he had not been there to die with a sword in his hand as a Zardon should.

Son of a Zarda warrior, and he had never killed a man—what would his father think of him? Deathleader Gamion of the Hearteaters, we could use you now, or some like you. Of all your three hundred descendants, Father, only Polion carries on the tradition. The way of the warrior is hard, but hard times require hard men. Imagine young Polion with his shield and spear and his sword…

 

Under a shady canopy on another terrace in the same palace, King Wung Tan leaned back in his wheeled chair, relaxing on scarlet cushions with his eyes closed. As befitting a monarch’s seat, the chair was large and high, almost a throne. An Ivielscath sat on either side of him, clasping his hand. Attendants wafted fans over the royal head. On a stool at his feet, Gwin Tharn was just within range of the breeze. Guards, doctors, courtiers clustered at a respectful distance and watched with deep suspicion.

Gwin had been surprised at how small Wung was. Somehow one expected kings to be large men. He seemed older than his years, with hair and beard prematurely white, his dusky face gaunt and deeply lined from the ravages of his illness. His silk robe of royal blue lay loosely over a wasted frame. Nonetheless, he was recovering; every day saw him stronger and the pain diminished.

His sickness had proved surprisingly easy to diagnose, once the president of the Academy had arrived with her entourage of Cursed. Fortunately, she had included Ziberor in her party. Several people had left court immediately and had not been heard from since—the king’s eldest daughter, her husband, a couple of the royal food tasters, and Nim Thong, the Jaulscath advisor. Cursed could be bribed like other men. Nim must certainly have known that poison was being added to the royal diet. Although Gwin’s authority as president of the Academy did not extend to High Justice, she had arbitrarily proclaimed sentence of death on the traitor. It was an empty gesture; the chances of ever tracking down a fugitive Jaulscath were as good as zero and only Raragashians must know the dread secret, or the Academy’s reputation would be ruined for ever. Labranza would have an apoplexy when she heard the news.

Wung Tan was a little man, but a very shrewd one. His daughter’s departure while he was ill was inexplicably impious. He must have guessed what had happened, but so far he had taken no action to hunt down the culprits. Gwin hoped his shrewdness had not led him to consider all possible solutions to the Hexzion Garab problem. She was a regicide too, or hoped to be one in the near future.

Will you stop brooding about that? said the Voice. The man is a bloodsucking monster. He sacked Tolamin. He slew thousands, including your husband. He has personally killed hundreds in the vilest ways he can devise. He deserves much worse than anything Vaslar Nomith will do to him.

She held this conversation several times a day. “But I shall still be a murderer. Where is the honor in that?”

You are sure to kill multitudes who deserve it much less than Hexzion Garab does, but you will be striving to save thousands more from the same fate. You are a Poulscath, a whirlwind, who must do evil to do good—that is part of the Curse. You cannot, the Voice added thoughtfully, hatch chickens without breaking eggs.

“But suppose Vaslar and Hitham fail? We should have heard something by now. They left Raragash when we did.”

The Voice made an exasperated sound, although only she could hear it, and even she was not really hearing it. The worst part of war is the waiting—you know that. Sooner or later you will learn to be patient. You may as well make it sooner.

A month ago, she had been a hotelier in Daling. Now she was a meddler in international politics, a shaper of destiny, a potential assassin. It was certainly more interesting, but it involved troublesome issues of ethics.

At the king’s side, Par a’Ciur eased herself on her chair, as if growing stiff with sitting still too long. Her seat was much lower than his, and her arm must be tiring. Despite her age, she had insisted on coming to Chan San. She had been a welcome addition to the party, for no one knew more of Ivielscath powers than she did. The whole council had come, except for Labranza.

The healer on the left was Niad. Although she had barely begun her training, Gwin had brought her along because her success in curing old Sojim showed she responded to Gwin’s fatalist authority. Whether the king was being cured by both Par and Niad together or only one of them did not matter. Quite likely he could heal on his own now, since the diet of poison had been discontinued. The important thing was that he was recovering and the kingdom was stable again.

Wung Tan opened his eyes and smiled down at Par. “We should perhaps take a break now?”

“As Your Majesty wishes.”

He chuckled. “Sick kings have no more majesty than other men, Par Saj. Steward?”

The healers rose. Attendants hurried forward with a beaker of fruit juice for the king, doctors raised him higher on his cushions. Gwin wondered where Bulion was. Watching the archery practice, most likely. The Tharn men were all fascinated by the Nurzians’ fabled archery.

Wung waved away the Lord Chancellor and his inevitable wad of documents. “We shall now give thanks to Iviel, as is our custom.” His voice was fittingly small and frail, lilting in the sing-song Nurzian dialect; the formality of his speech depended on the size of his audience. “Madam President, would you do us the honor of pushing us to the shrine of Morning Star?”

Gwin was surprised by the invitation, but she made the only possible answer. Scowling courtiers backed out of the way as she went around to the back of the mobile throne. It rolled more easily than she had expected, although its wheels rumbled discordantly on the tiled pavement. She set off along a path closely overhung with flowering vines.

“Did you hear the news, Gwin?” asked the king. Now she realized that his head was level with hers and she had to lean forward to push. It was a rare opportunity for a confidential chat. “About the Karpana being turned back at Jad River?”

“It’s wonderful!”

“Depends on your point of view,” Wung Tan said drily. “Now they must veer eastward around Lake Osmir. The Mokthians will not approve.”

“But a victory is a victory!”

He sighed. “So we shall proclaim, of course. All that really happened was that our garrison held off their forward patrols long enough for us to rip down the bridge. We lost a thousand men. Tens of thousands of refugees were left stranded in the Karpana’s path. They would not approve either, I fear.”

“You should look on the bright side, Saj. They might easily have taken the garrison unaware and won the bridge intact.”

Wung Tan waved a child-sized brown hand in a dismissive gesture. “They may yet fill in the river with corpses and walk across, but I think not. A horde so large needs keep moving lest it starve.”

“How long have we got before they come around the lake?”

“Can’t say. I suspect they have let themselves get too spread out. Now they’ve met some resistance again, they may take time to pull up their tail, but I’m only guessing.”

The conversation was broken off as they reached the bottom of a flight of steps. An officer and four hefty guardsmen were on hand to carry the chair up. The palace was originally imperial, of course—nothing on this scale had been built in the last hundred years—but it had been transformed by the Nurzian kings. In a renaissance of their ancestral culture, they had coated it in brilliant tiles until every surface was a kaleidoscope of dazzling color.

Gwin began to push again. This level was open to the sun, bright with flowers. Men with buckets were watering the grass.

“I have made my decision,” Wung said. “If my brother monarchs will agree to united action against the Karpana, then I will join them.”

“That is exceedingly good news,” Gwin said politely. It was not unexpected. The Karpana’s efforts to cross the Jad a week ago proved that they intended to head west and must therefore violate either Nurz or Wesnar to get there. Wung’s acceptance was welcome, provided he did not set too many conditions on it.

He continued. “As you said, Dreadlord Zorg is logical choice as war leader for the coalition. Given appropriate guarantees, I will accept him—for a strictly limited time. I have no wish to find my own army deposing me in favor of Hexzion Garab. Brother Hexzion is a scorpion in a clothes closet. One never knows where he will turn up.”

Gwin would prefer not to discuss Hexzion, or even think about him. “I hope we can persuade him to join the coalition and release Zorg from his paramount loyalty—for a strictly limited time, of course.”

“You have asked him?”

“It seemed premature to do so until we knew whether you and King Quilm Urnith were willing. Your realms lie between him and the enemy.”

She stopped the chair at the top of another staircase. The same men were standing there as if they had been guarding the spot for hours. They must have run like maniacs to arrive before she did. As they turned the chair to lift it, the king was looking toward her.

“We can all hope. You received a dispatch from Wesnar this morning.” The deep-etched lines on his face twisted into an inquiring smile.

Sly old rogue! “Your Majesty is well informed.”

“That is a necessary prerequisite of survival,” Wung Tan said drily, “and we do not always know everything we should.”

At the bottom of the stairs, when they were rolling again and out of earshot of the guards, Gwin said, “Wesnar acknowledged my election as president. Also… I confess I did not think of this myself, but my secretary is one of those able subordinates who can foresee my needs. When we sent out the proclamation, he included a request for a safe-conduct, in case we wished to send a delegation to Mokth. Today we received a promise of safe passage across the Cockpit.”

“You have not heard from Quilm yet?”

“Not yet. As my secretary foresaw, I am now sorely tempted to go and call on him myself.” The Voice was insistent on the need for a journey to Mokth.

“Safe conduct or no, we shall be happy to provide you with an escort.”

“That is most kind of you. Of course I must wait here until you are completely restored to health.”

Wung sighed. “I think you have done all that is needed. If you would be so kind as to leave your Jaulscath lady to attend me, I believe my convalescence will continue even in your absence.”

That was a scarcely-veiled reference to poison. Gwin protested politely, although she did not truly believe her presence was necessary now. He cut her off.

“No, you must go. Time is desperately short. The battle at Jad River was on Muolday—a week ago. Who knows where the horde is now?”

They had reached the shrine that was their destination. The Nurzians had restored worship of the fates, a practice the Qolians had suppressed for centuries. The city was full of temples to various aspects of Ogoal, Jaul, and the rest; the palace had dozens of little shrines and chapels. Wosion and Bulion disapproved. In a corner of this terrace stood an alabaster image of a naked woman, Iviel as Healer. A low fountain played in a stone basin before her. Offerings of flowers were heaped at her feet.

The terrace stood little higher than the street; crowd noises drifted in through the balustrade. An aviary of cockatoos on one side provided a background chorus of strident shrieks. The fountain tinkled and splashed.

“Now!” Wung said briskly. “Come around and sit on the edge there, where I can see you.” His sunken eyes were bright as he watched her reactions. He was sitting up alertly. “This is the best place in the palace for a private gossip.”

Gwin obeyed, smiling. “I see you are stronger than you choose to reveal.” Wily little spider!

He chuckled. “Caution is another prerequisite for survival. There is a matter I wish to discuss. I think you have overlooked something in your grand strategy. Do you know what they call you around the palace?”

Gwin settled on the edge of the stone basin. “The Witch. It doesn’t matter.”

Wung waggled a tiny finger at her. “Yes it does! Oh, courtiers are sophisticated enough, but peasants have a longstanding fear of the Cursed. Remember that our regular armies will not suffice. In the next few weeks, we shall muster every sturdy farm lad we can catch. You do not seriously hope to destroy the Karpana in a single battle, surely? After that first engagement, we shall need to raise more men yet, to replace our losses. Do you expect the men of eastern Kuolia to take up arms because you say so, Gwin Tharn? Follow a woman into battle?”

“I plan to work behind the scenes, Saj.”

“Scenery is transparent to sharp eyes. And you are a Cursed.”

“So was Pantholion.”

“Possibly, but he never admitted it!” The little man quirked his snowy eyebrows at her. “And he was a warrior. Nurz was civilized when Qol was a straggle of mud huts. Six times the empire conquered us. Five times we drove them out. In the end, Qol chose to rule here indirectly, letting us keep our own kings. They were puppets, yes, but Nurz retained its identity as a sovereign state within the empire. There were few such. My own family was older than the Karithian dynasty.”

Gwin did not see why this mattered, but her curiosity was piqued. Why had Wung sought out this highly confidential place to deliver a lesson in history? The macaws and cockatoos screeched mockingly.

This is important! said the Voice.

“Coalitions do not inspire loyalty, Gwin.” The king was watching her reaction carefully. “Who will spill his blood for a committee? Who but the Faceless would fight for Frenzkion Zorg?”

She nodded, feeling a tremor of excitement as things fell into place. “We need a figurehead?”

He nodded. “Nurz could accept a figurehead emperor. I should swear allegiance to him as overlord—which is what an emperor is, strictly speaking. He must swear to respect Nurzian sovereignty in return, of course. He would have no real authority, but he would be a rallying point, a symbol. Men will die for symbols.”

“That is an incredibly generous offer, Sire!” She hoped her suspicions were not too obvious. What ruler ever surrendering his autonomy voluntarily?

“It is a very Nurzian concept. We have outlasted the Qolians. We survived the Zarda. Now we are starting to flower again in our own way. We may yet bear our own fruit. I do not wish to see a hundred years of progress shattered by the Karpana. A token empire would not be so very great a price to pay.”

A month ago she had bargained with the miller over the price of flour. Now she negotiated with dynasties. “You have someone in mind, Saj?”

Wang smiled. “Your husband impressed me greatly last night. He is that rarest of all rarities, an honest man.”

Bulion? What by all the fates would he say to this?

“He is only a farmer!”

“He is a patriarch! Put a purple robe and a crown on him, seat him on a milk-white horse—men will cheer their lungs out for him. He is everyman’s ideal of what a benevolent emperor should be. You can work behind the scenes then, Witch Gwin. You will be the emperor’s wife and no one will question your presence.”

Now those absurd prophecies made sense. The emperor need not be a war lord. He could hire men to lead his armies.

“All those self-proclaimed Renewers…” Gwin said wonderingly.

“They went about it the wrong way! They tried to elevate themselves for their own glory. What Kuolia wants is someone worthy of its loyalty, someone willing to serve its needs.”

“Why didn’t you mention this?” she asked the Voice.

There was no great hurry. Wung Tan might have resisted the idea. Now that he has thought of it himself, he has persuaded himself.

“I shall have to broach the matter very carefully, Saj,” Gwin said. “Modesty may be even rarer than honesty, but my husband will not fancy himself in a crown.”

“You can talk him around, I am sure,” the little man said. “Take him with you to Mokth and see what Quilm Urnith thinks of him. Say that I am willing if he is. Men fight for ideas. We can oppose the Karpana with the old idea of empire, the return of the Golden Age!” He leaned back in his chair, looking weary. “A Zarda empire will appeal… but we can worry about Hexzion Garab when the need arises, yes?”

He suspected—oh yes, he suspected!

Proclaim her husband emperor? It would not be easy to persuade him. And even if it were… “You said you would accept Dreadlord Zorg as war leader for a limited time. Is that another of my husband’s qualifications, Sire? His age? He should last long enough to see the war out, but not much longer?”

Wung avoided her eye for a moment. “That is a consideration,” he admitted.

 

Bulion thrust with his spear and another Karpanon fell with a shriek. He cried out his triumph and heard his companions cheer his success. They stood shoulder to shoulder in an endless line, brothers-in-arms, advancing together over a litter of corpses. The evil foes fell like straw before them. He was strong and tireless, a Zarda warrior in his youthful prime. Here was Gamion, deathleader in the Hearteaters, weeping tears of pride as his youngest son, his precious boy, proved himself worthy of the ancestral line. There was Polion, splattered with blood, and laughing joyfully at his grandfather’s prowess. The blood of Pantholion hammered in his arteries…

“Are we going to have a thunderstorm?” Gwin inquired, “or is that just snoring I hear?”

Bulion opened one eye. She was perched on the edge of the other chair, leaning forward with her hands clasped on her knees.

He grunted. “I don’t hear anything.”

She grinned. “Just my imagination, then. Are you too sleepy to talk?”

“Sleepy? I’m not sleepy! Just thinking.”

Her smile grew wistful. “Thinking of the valley? I long for it too, love, I really do. That’s what we’re fighting for, isn’t it? To make all the Tharn Valleys safe for peace-loving people?”

Maybe. Bulion still had suspicions that some people wanted to revive the empire and put him in charge of it. He yawned and stretched.

“I looked for you down at the butts,” Gwin said cheerfully. “The boys are all very excited about those funny-looking Nurzian bows.”

“They’re extra strong because they’re lambasted,” Bulion said knowledgeably.

“I promised Wosion I’d ask Wung to give us some to take home.”

A farmer’s wife on first-name terms with kings! He gazed wistfully at her smile, her slender arms, the swell of her breasts in her low-cut robe of silver and cobalt. Her hair was still too short for Zarda, but she wore a coronet of white daisies in it. She was the perfect woman, strong but gentle, poised by day, passionate by night. They called her the Witch here in Nurz, but he loved her. She cured dying kings and—he suspected—conspired to murder healthy ones. He was frightened of her now, this Cursed of Poul, this wielder of destiny. His turtledove had become an eagle before his eyes, but he loved her still. He did not think she would be his much longer.

“How is he today?”

“Wung? Oh, the old boy’s much better!”

“He’s ten years younger than me.”

She winced. “Well he doesn’t look it! Listen, love—I have to go and visit Mokth.”

“You?” Bulion heaved himself up in the chair. “Now you listen to me! You can’t do everything yourself! You’re only one woman—”

“I am the Poulscath, the first in a hundred years.” She shook her head sadly. “I didn’t ask for it, but I’ve got it. If Quilm Urnith’s scared, I can put some backbone in him with a Muolscath. If he’s making mad plans to fight the Karpana by himself, I can calm him down. If I go, then I can win him to the cause, I’m sure. It won’t take more than a couple of days.”

“If you can find him.”

She shrugged. “There’s that. Let’s just hope he’s still at Jarinfarka—that’s where he was a few weeks ago.”

“But if couriers can’t get through—”

She smiled triumphantly. “Wang’s promised us an escort. Ching Chilith got a safe-conduct out of Hexzion Garab. We leave in the morning. You don’t want to stay here, do you?”

“Of course not.” He wasn’t sure what he did want. “Wosion and the others can come with us?”

“Of course. As soon as we’re safely across the Cockpit, they can head south to the valley. I’m sure the family is worried about us.” She studied him anxiously. “You will come with me to Jarinfarka, though, won’t you, Bull?”

He sighed and turned away to stare at the shrubbery, not seeing it. “Nien, if you want to dismount from that tiger, then this is your chance.”

He waited, not looking at her, until she spoke again.

“Not yet.”

“You’ll always be welcome back in the valley.”

When she did not answer, he glanced at her again. Her eyes were shinier than they should be. She would not fake tears.

“You want me?” he said. “Why? I can’t help. I’m just a fat old farmer.”

“You’re my husband. You help by being at my side and loving me. I can’t do this alone. Will you make me choose between you and destiny? The Karpana will destroy the land, the people, everything. And you can help! If you’ll come to Quilm’s court and—”

“You want a puppet emperor? Someone the people can cheer and the kings aren’t afraid of? Ride around on a white charger and be everyone’s grandfather while you work away unnoticed in my shadow?”

She stared. “How did you… Where did you get that idea?”

“It’s been obvious ever since you began talking about a coalition.” He just wished she’d come out with it a little sooner.

“I didn’t think of it! It was Wung Tan’s idea!” She left the chair and knelt beside him, gripping his hand. “Bull, I swear I didn’t think of this! I knew nothing of it until half an hour ago!”

“All right,” he said gruffly. “I believe you.” Did he, though? “But I won’t do it. I won’t be a puppet, Gwin. I’m too old. I’m going home.”

“Not a puppet! A symbol of what we’re fighting for. You know why Wung thought of you? He said you’re—”

“I don’t care what that desiccated brown monkey said. I am going home. I will not play at being an emperor, not even for you. I love you, Nien. I will always love you, Cursed or not. But I will not share you with the rest of the world.”

She sank back on her heels and bowed her head. He wondered if she was talking to her Voice of Destiny. Then she said, “We have a week before you need to decide. Promise me you’ll think about it? Promise we can talk about it again?”

“No,” he said. “I have thought about it. I have decided. You ride your tiger if you must, but this is where I get off.”