Kaapua,” Xienpei said, gesturing toward and across the wide blue waters. “The River of Flowers.”
The land at their feet sloped gently toward the river. Here the trees had given way to scrub and shrubbery and colorful grasses, and the land all along Kaapua was aflame with red and yellow and orange dream-poppies, waist-high rhododendrons in violent scarlet and deepest purple, cobra grass with hoods of pale green and yellow-spotted throats, flowers that burst like fireworks, flowers that looked like small wisps of colored smoke.
Even so late in the spring Jian could see the occasional raft or basket of blooms making its journey to the sea, stragglers from the mountain villagers’ fertility rites. One particularly elaborate creation spun and bobbed its way past them, trailing streamers of cloth and laden with offerings of guava and pomegranate blossoms. Some woman had wished for a child, a girl-child.
Jian felt his heart squeeze painfully and he wished that the stranger’s prayer might be answered, that she would be blessed with a strong and healthy daughter, and that the little girl would be born well past the days of the Two Moon Dawn.
None of this showed on his face—not the beauty of the land, his joy at being so close to water, not even the thought that if he drove his knife through the throat of Xienpei, he might throw himself into the water and escape. Or better yet, drown. He let the flowered raft slip by beneath his gaze, lest the touch of his regard bring misfortune to its maker.
“Why have you brought me here?” he asked instead. Not that he expected Xienpei to answer, or would trust her words if she did.
Her laugh was as light and sweet as the wind through the flowers. “As a reward, why else? Do you think I tempt you to make an escape? I am unarmed.” She spread her arms out to either side and laughed again. The sunlight caught in her teeth. “I like to come out here and breathe air that does not stink of sweat and fear. I like to be near the water. I am hoping you might run so that I can hunt you down and eat you. Take your pick.” She lowered her arms, sank gracefully to the ground, and closed her eyes.
Jian studied his yendaeshi as she meditated, hands resting lightly on her knees, face as smooth and guileless as a sleeping child’s. He wondered whether she really wanted him to run, and what might happen if he did.
The raft shed its flowers into the river as it spun gently out of sight.
A hummingbird danced about him for a while, thinking perhaps that he was an enormous yellow flower, before taking its place amongst the honeybees.
A hawk circled lazily overhead, hoping to startle a hare into flight.
Jian closed his eyes, listened to the wind, and waited.
“You are getting better at this,” Xienpei said after a while, without opening her eyes. “You are learning well. You may swim, if you like. I know how the water calls to you.”
“Yendaeshi?”
She did not answer. Jian stared at her for long moments more, then shrugged and walked down the gentle slope toward the water, stripping his clothes off as he went and letting them fall to the ground. He could feel the muscles shift and curl beneath his skin, and the ache at the side of his neck where Naruteo had struck him two days earlier. He shook his hand: still a little numb. He shed his left sandal in the grass and his right sandal in the mud by the river, and then the water slapped at his feet, inviting him to play.
Jian froze mid-breath, his entire body shocked by a pleasure so sharp it was closer to pain. The water was sweet and shallow and fickle, it sang of mountaintops drenched in rain and locked in ice, of flowers and frogs spawning in the reeds, and the long deaths of rocks. It did not sing to him with the voice of the sea, but it sang, and for now it was enough.
Shedding his human existence as carelessly as he had shed his clothes, Jian slipped into the river and let the water carry him away. All his life he had been called Issuq, a sea-thing’s child, but not until this moment had Jian felt the truth in those words.
Not a day of it had come easy. The Daechen had been moved into the Yellow Palace the very same day as the winnowing, and by the third day Jian thought he was going to die as well. During the first few days, he had been given purges and potions and foul-tasting teas that made his eyes water, his tongue swell, and his hair fall out in clumps. One day he would break out in an angry red-and-white rash, and the next his body would try to rid itself of every meal he had ever eaten, from both ends at once.
He was confined to his room at first, and when the boys were finally dragged to the main dining hall, he saw that their numbers had been cut by nearly half again. Jian was happy to see that Perri had survived, though the smaller boy was a mass of bruises and cuts and walked bent over in an old man’s shuffle. He was even happy to see Naruteo’s swollen, sullen face. The laughing boy from Shenzou, the weaver’s boy from Tienzhen, the pig-farm boys from Hou… in the end they had been nothing more than a handful of lesser pearls, ground into dust.
The following weeks had brought no relief. The purges and medicines stopped, and were followed by a blessed few days of rest and bland food and even the occasional walk outside, but every moment and every movement took place under the watchful stare of the yendaeshi, and the slightest wrong glance brought swift and painful punishment. Jian learned quickly to keep his head down and his mouth shut. Naruteo, whose neck was stiff as a bull’s, was slower to yield his will and often absent at mealtimes.
Days bled into weeks, each turn of the moons bringing a new torment as he was poked and prodded and tested and beaten for infractions he could not have guessed at or avoided. Asking after his mother had earned Jian a leather strap across the face. Looking up toward the sun had earned him a five-stroke caning and the loss of his clothes for three days. The morning he watched both Naruteo and Perri stripped, bound, beaten, and dragged bloody and unconscious from the exercise yard, he knew he would not survive the Yellow Palace. He wondered whether they would send his bones to his mother, or whether she would take her tea at the beach during Remembrance, and smile, thinking him alive and well.
That night, Jian dreamt of the sea. In his dream there were no yendaeshi, no yellow silk or blood-soaked sheets, no Yellow Palace, no emperor. There was only Jian, and the sea, and life. He dove down, down, into the mother’s embrace, feeling the warm salt water tickle and rub against his thick fur, peering wide-eyed through the tourmaline gloom. He was not alone, for once in his life he was truly not alone.
He could hear the cetaceans calling each other by their beautiful names, hear the vast weave of their lifesongs circling round and round, never-ending and ever-changing as the sea herself. Lives that were so infinitely small or so incredibly vast his mind could not map them, and that was just fine. None was more important, or less important, than his own.
They were.
He was.
A bullfish flitted by, and he thought about eating it. A shongwei passed beneath, and thought about eating him. He was strong, he was fierce, he was home. He ate the bullfish, and it was good. He was eaten, in turn, by the shongwei… and that was also good. There was no pain, no regret, there was only the sea.
The next day Jian woke early, feeling better than he had since he had come to Khanbul. He felt… clean. As if he had been swallowed and spat forth again, whole and healed. Even Xienpei noticed the change. She had had him beaten in case he had been planning an escape, and then with her own hands she brought him a plate of fish and seaweed and rice with saffron, and praised his stamina.
“Your successes are mine,” she had explained to him as they dined together that evening, “as are your failures. I never fail, Daechen Jian.” Jian had nodded as the lashai poured another cup of salty tea. He could almost feel the muscles flex beneath his fur as he reached for it. He was almost surprised that he held the delicate porcelain with a man’s hand instead of powerful black claws. He did not need Xienpei to tell him that this tea had been made with seawater. It was good.
From that time forward, Jian had grown in strength and skill as quickly as a toddler learning to walk. His muscles grew heavy and lean under the harsh hands of the combat and weapons tutors and the watchful eyes of the kitchen staff. On Xienpei’s instructions he was fed generously on meat, fish, or fowl at every meal. Before a turning of the small moon he could run from the front doors and up the spiraling stairs of the tower without stopping once. By the turning of the big moon he could run back down, as well. His hair grew sleek, his skin glowed with health, and Jian began to hope he might survive the Yellow Palace.
Xienpei had ordered that he be taught the gentle arts as well—script and poetry, music and dance. This last he performed gracefully enough if he was allowed to move slowly, like a bear, and his singing voice was a bear’s as well, low and growly and coarse. He was no more apt with any of the wind or stringed instruments they tried him on, so finally they settled on the skin drums, which suited him well. It was a pleasant change to sit cross-legged in a quiet corner with the heavy drum in his lap, and feel the wood shiver and rumble at his touch.
As he became more and more proficient at the tasks his yendaeshi set him, and more pliant to her commands, Jian was allowed some small freedoms. No longer was he to be observed as he bathed or slept, nor required to keep his hair cut short to the shoulders, and he was allowed the freedom of going barefoot as had been his preference for as long as he could remember.
Best of all, if there was time left in the day after his chores and lessons and punishments were complete, he might be allowed to go for a walk outside the palace. When he went to the river he was always accompanied by Xienpei, and a pair of lashai with short bows. He was also made to understand that if ever he tried to escape, Perri would share in his punishment. Even so, Jian looked forward to these outings with an eagerness that shamed him. The smallest flawed pearl may be precious to a man who has no other treasure.
The moons tossed and turned across the sky, lean and full and lean once more, and as one moon bled into the next Jian found that he was sleeping through his nights and performing through his days like a bear trained to the chain and the whip and the beastmaster’s sharp voice. As his body adapted to this new life, so did his mind, to the point that he shied away from all thought of home or escape, and hardly flinched when one of his yearmates was beaten for some minor infraction or shortcoming.
Sometimes a boy’s place at the table would sit empty for a day or two, and sometimes his chair would be removed altogether. Jian kept his eyes to his own plate and said nothing. The sun shone just as brightly either way.
* * *
He reached the bottom of the river and twined his arm about a thick strand of serpent grass, anchoring himself against the current. The mud was cool against his skin, the river stones smooth and soothing as small hands massaging away the day’s hurts.
He let the water have its way with him, tossing him this way and that, playful as a child with a new toy. He looked down, away from the surface and the sunlight and the land creatures, and for a moment allowed himself to imagine that he was at the bottom of the sea. A curious pike emerged from its home underneath an old hollow log and hung suspended in the water, face-to-face with him, its sleek body undulating, red-and-green fins twisting this way and that as it held itself in place and studied him.
Eventually it lost interest and swam away in search of a meal. He closed his eyes and turned his face into the current.
“Jian,” he whispered, and felt his name turn to bubbles and be washed out to sea. “Jian.”
He stayed as long as he dared. When he surfaced, Xienpei was not alone. Naruteo was there, hands bound behind him with a leather thong. He was collared as well, and a sturdy lashai at each side held a leash. The look he shot Jian was pure venom. Another of the yendaeshi stood beside Xienpei—Jian recognized the bald man who had laughed at them as they were culled, and his breath caught. As if she scented his fear, Xienpei turned to him and smiled.
“Now you see, Tsa-len? My boy can be trusted. He is a good boy. Is that not right, Daechen Jian?”
A chill wind rippled over his skin, and Jian repressed a shiver. He bowed his head low.
“Yes, Yendaeshi.” His legs and feet were covered with mud from the river, and Jian was painfully aware that he stood naked before the others.
“I prefer to raise mine up with a bit more spirit.” The bald man chuckled. His voice was smooth as a cat stalking its prey. “Toughens them up, eh, boy?” Jian heard the slap of flesh on flesh, and Naruteo’s grunt of pain.
“Yes, Yendaeshi.”
“I will wager that my Jian is as tough as your… boy… any day.”
Jian held his breath as a cold sweat broke out all over his body. He had heard rumors of the yendaeshi pitting their charges against one another, in fights to the death.
“Oh? What will you wager?”
“I will wager this jade pendant against that ruby of yours.”
“Ah, Xienpei, I am disappointed in you, wagering baubles when we have fine young flesh to hand. Perhaps what they say is true… you are losing your edge.”
Jian heard Xienpei hiss at the insult. He felt the fear coiling in his belly, rising up his throat like a snake…
…and he let it go. Just like that, he let it go, breathed it away into the mud and the wind and the river. What would be, would be, and if this day ended with his body dumped into the river and borne out to sea, so be it.
“So you say. What would you have, then?”
“My boy against yours, for training rights. My boy wins, I take yours. Your boy wins, you get this one.”
“I have no use for your land-locked bullock. I want the girl.”
“Ah.” The man laughed. “So it’s a matched pair you want, is it? I am delighted to find the rumors of your demise are… premature. So be it. My boy against yours, for the girl. You!” he barked at Naruteo. “Strip!”
“Jian!” Xienpei snapped. “To me, now.”
Jian trotted quickly to stand before Xienpei, dismayed at the sight of his muddy bare feet near her immaculate gold slippers. She lifted his chin with two fingers and stared straight into his eyes. Hers were as bright as a child’s at a festival. He had never seen her so animated, not even at the winnowing.
“Jian,” she whispered. “Daechen Jian. This is your moment, do you understand me? Your day. Do you wish to live?”
“Yendaeshi?” His thoughts moved slowly, as if his head was clogged with mud from the river.
She slapped him hard enough that he tasted blood. “What are you? Are you a piece of shit washed up by the sea, or are you Daechen?” She slapped him again, snapping his head to the side. “Are you a corpse rotting on the beach? Or are you Issuq? Live?” She slapped him a third time. “Or die?” She raised her hand again. “Live?”
Jian reached up and trapped her wrist in his hand. He was strong, he realized, strong enough to snap her little bird-bones with a simple twist. He stared into her face, daring her to strike him again.
“I will live,” he growled at her.
Xienpei smiled at him and wrenched her hand free. “Then fight, you little bastard. Fight, and win, and I might just let you live.” Swift as a serpent’s strike she grabbed him by the shoulders, and whipped him about, and gave him a strong push just as Naruteo, unbound and naked, staggered toward him.
Their eyes met. Naruteo’s face twisted into a mask of rage, eyes small and red as a bull’s, and Jian felt his own bloodlust rise in answer. As the other boy bellowed and charged, head down, Jian roared a challenge and ran to meet him. They collided with a bone-jarring crunch. Jian was lifted off his feet, but twisted away and landed upright in the mud at the river’s edge. He roared again and held both arms out as if to embrace his enemy as Naruteo shook his head, turned, and charged again.
The river sang in his blood and the wind sang in his lungs, and Jian twisted, snarling, as Naruteo closed the distance in three short strides. Power exploded in his chest, his back, his legs and he struck toward the enemy with his hand open, fingers splayed like claws, fully intending to knock the other boy’s head from his shoulders. The blow connected with a satisfying crunch and Naruteo spun with the force of it, slipped end over end, and flew backward into the river with a splash. He bellowed and thrashed, trying to right himself.
Jian did not wait, but threw himself on his opponent and pinned him on his back in the shallow water, kneeling on the other boy’s shoulders and grabbing him by the throat. He ground his teeth, peering through a red curtain of fury and blood as Naruteo choked and gasped, flailing like a fish dying on the end of a harpoon.
“Enough!”
The river rushed in his ears as he pressed Naruteo’s head back, back into the water. The other thrashed and fought, bloody foam at his mouth washing away and eyes bulging in fury—but his struggles grew weaker, and Jian knew he had him. Power surged in him again, blood and victory, and he bared his teeth as he pushed his advantage, pushed Naruteo’s face beneath the water.
Someone pulled at him, struck at his shoulders and his face and the back of his head, seeking to deprive him of his prey. Jian snarled at them and tightened his grip. His enemy’s struggles grew feeble. Just a moment longer…
“ENOUGH!” Xienpei’s voice lashed at him, and Jian fell back, shuddering and breathing hard. Hands reached past him to drag Naruteo from the water, and he snapped at them.
“Enough, Daechen Jian. Back, now.” Her hand was at his shoulder, pulling him away. Jian allowed himself to be led, though he growled at them through his teeth. She cuffed him on the side of his head, almost fondly, and he subsided.
The river called to him, its voice soft and sorrowful. He sat back on his haunches and let the cool water wash the mud and blood from his fur.
Fur?
As the lashai and the bald man dragged Naruteo’s limp form from the river, Jian brought his hands up before his eyes. His hands, not a sea-bear’s claws as he had imagined, a man’s hands covered in mud and blood. Naruteo rolled over on the beach, retching up water and groaning. Jian almost sobbed in relief.
I am a man, he thought. A man, not a beast.
Xienpei stroked his hair and murmured to him in a low voice. “There, there, my good boy. Shhh, let it go.” He did not look up, but he could hear the smile in her voice. “You did well today, Daechen Jian—I am pleased. Very pleased.” She patted his shoulder and then walked along the river’s edge to the other yendaeshi, who stood over Naruteo with a murderous scowl.
She did not bother to look back.