The grace of kings, p.58
The Grace of Kings, page 58
Risana bowed to Jia in jiri. “Big Sister, since our parting in Zudi, not a single day has gone by without me and my son thanking you in our prayers. Now that Kuni has you back, Dasu again has a queen, and all is right with the world.”
Jia nodded in acknowledgment, a bitter smile on her face.
Lady Soto had also come back with Jia. Kuni was surprised.
“There are families you’re born into, and families you make out of those you love,” said Soto.
“I am honored,” said Kuni, and he bowed to her deeply. “What of Mata?”
“I love my nephew,” said Soto. “But his path and mine have diverged too far.”
Otho Krin had grown even more gaunt during the years of captivity, but there was also a strength in his eyes Kuni had not seen before. Timu and Théra, still hanging tightly on to Jia, called out to their “Uncle Otho” with a warmth that made Kuni’s heart clench.
Then he let out a held breath and smiled. “You have suffered. Thank you.”
Otho bowed and backed out of the room with Soto; Risana corralled the children and took them away to play.
Jia and Kuni embraced, both faces covered with tears. The warmth between them was reassuring but also faint, their smells now unfamiliar to each other with the separation of years. It would take time to rekindle that fire that had once warmed their little house in Zudi, that had once blazed into passion in the home outside Çaruza by the sea.
“You have paid a great price for our success,” Kuni said.
“As have you,” Jia said.
As Luan Zya packed his things to get ready for the retreat, he heard the sound of rustling pages. He looked and saw it was Gitré Üthu, the magic book given to him by the old fisherman in Haan.
There was no breeze in the tent.
He walked over: The book lay open to a fresh, blank page. As he stared at it, colorful logograms emerged from the paper like islands rising from the sea.
The logograms told of a fairy tale:
Once, two great crubens vied for lordship over the seas, one blue, the other red. The two great scaled whales, being of equal strength, fought for seven days without resolution.
Each day, by mutual agreement, as the sun set and as their strength diminished, the two crubens ceased their fight. They slept on two sides of an undersea trench to recover. When the sun rose in the morning, they would be back at it again.
On the seventh night, just as the red cruben settled down for rest, a remora attached to him whispered to his host: “Finish him. Finish him. Finish him. When his eyes are closed and his mind in deep slumber, stab him through the heart with your horn. Finish him. Finish him. Finish him.”
“What kind of counsel is this?” said the red cruben. “Such a path is neither fair nor just. I have come to admire him after so many days of fighting.”
“I’m attached to you,” said the remora. “I live off the detritus that drifts from your maw after you feed. I have traveled the four seas only by dint of your power. If you win, I’ll have more to eat, and perhaps I’ll puff up and show off my colorful fins to the other fish, but if you lose, I’ll just find another great fish to attach to. Though I’ll benefit from your victory, I’ll not share your dishonor—the memory of the sea is rarely kind to great creatures who blame their moral failing on those who but serve and advise at their pleasure.”
The cruben was surprised. “So you admit that you risk nothing, and I everything. Why should I listen to you?”
“Because I live so low, hanging from your belly, my duty isn’t to be your conscience, but to think thoughts you dare not think, devise plans you dare not utter. When you find a great cruben, a lord of the sea, whose scales are shiny, whose hide is smooth, whose muscles bulge with vigor and health, you may be sure that you’ll find a great many remoras attached to him gorged on filth. A cruben whose remoras are afraid to get dirty will not live long or find victory.”
And the red cruben listened to the remora and became the lord of the four seas.
Luan Zya closed the book and laughed bitterly. Was this how he’d be remembered by history?
Then he recalled the moonlight falling on the ruins in Ginpen and the song of the children of Haan. He remembered the promise he made to his father and felt again the restlessness in his soul.
The more perfect the ideals, the less ideal the methods.
Kuni’s army pulled back from Dimushi, toward Pan, which Cogo Yelu had rebuilt. Kuni’s family had been sent on ahead. The agreement was for both sides to not station troops within fifty miles of the Liru River.
“Have you thought about when we should attack?” Luan asked.
They were riding in Kuni’s carriage. The king was reviewing reports of harvests and tax collections and thinking about how to administer his vast new realm now that the war was over. All those old records from the Xana Imperial Archives saved by Cogo Yelu would come in handy, he realized, and he was again thankful for his prime minister’s foresight. Luan Zya’s question caught him off guard.
“Attack?”
Luan took a deep breath. “You don’t really think this peace treaty is the end, do you?”
Kuni looked at him. “The war has gone on long enough. Mata and I, neither of us can overcome the other. I’ve put my seal on the document. It is done.”
“A seal is only a mark on a piece of paper, with exactly as much force as you are willing to give it. The Cocru army has run out of provisions, and now they’ve scattered across Cocru and let down their guard. We, on the other hand, remain well stocked, thanks to Cogo’s efforts. This is the best opportunity to attack them from behind and hit them with everything we have.”
“Then I’ll be remembered by history as a great betrayer. Mata’s accusation against me will be carved in stone, made true by my own act. What you counsel is against all the laws of war. I will have no honor left.”
“The judgment of history cannot be ascertained from up close. You see the condemnation of the people of this generation, but you cannot foresee how their descendants will view your deeds in the future. If you do not attack now and end this war, the killing will never stop. In another ten years, or twenty, Dasu and Cocru will again face each other on the battlefield, blood will again stain the Liru River, and the people of Dara will again suffer and die.”
Kuni thought of the people of Pan, whom he had abandoned once in the hope of preserving Mata’s friendship. Their cries as the streets filled with blood still haunted him in dreams.
“You will have sacrificed the lives of the people for personal honor, an empty word,” Luan said. “That seems to me a most selfish act.”
“Is there no room for mercy? No sympathy among gods or men?”
“Mercy for your foes, my king, is the same as cruelty to your friends.”
“That sort of logic, Luan, could become the salve and loincloth for all tyrants.”
“Queen Gin has always argued that if one goes to war, one should do all one can to win. A knife is not malicious merely because it is sharp, and a plot is not evil merely because it is effective. All depends on the wielder. The grace of kings is not the same as the morals governing individuals.”
Kuni did not respond.
“If you do not make use of every advantage given to you, the gods will condemn you for your error.”
The treaty felt heavy in Kuni’s hands. Would the lives of the people feel even heavier?
I think I wield power, Kuni thought, but perhaps it is Power that wields me.
“Summon Mün Çakri and Than Carucono.”
Kuni sighed in resignation and tore the paper into pieces.
In a minute, the pieces had disappeared in the wind, like words spoken and then forgotten.
Mata Zyndu received the news of Kuni Garu’s betrayal at Rana Kida, a wall-less town near a hill in the Porin Plains, still miles from Çaruza.
Kuni’s army had crossed the Liru, and Théca Kimo’s army had landed at Canfin. In the east, Mazoti’s men had broken through the defenses in the hills at the southern end of the Wisoti Mountains. Fifty thousand Dasu soldiers and allies were now closing in on Mata.
Mata had already sent the bulk of his army in scattered detachments to garrison the towns all across Cocru, leaving only five thousand riders with him.
“This is just like Wolf’s Paw and Zudi,” Ratho said. “Though they outnumber us ten to one, we will yet prevail.”
“Ah, my brother,” Mata whispered. And he tore the treaty in his hand into pieces, scattering them like moths in the chill wind of late autumn.
The Dasu army swept over Cocru, a sickle swinging across fields of wheat. It was winter, and the hard pounding of their horses’ hooves could be heard for many miles all around the frozen land. Bypassing the Cocru garrisons in their well-defended cities, Kuni’s forces aimed straight for Rana Kida, stretching their supply lines as long as kites straining in a howling gale.
Mata mustered his troops on top of the hill near Rana Kida. Kuni, Théca, and Gin’s armies converged and surrounded the hill tightly like the hoops of a barrel. Gin Mazoti was appointed commander-in-chief. This would be her masterpiece, her greatest battle.
Mounts Fithowéo and Kana both erupted, and a snowstorm that was beyond anything in living memory raged over the battlefield. High winds shifted direction from moment to moment, and snow fell in great clumps, mixed with hail. Even the gods seemed to be at war.
Day and night, the hegemon ordered his men to try to break through Gin Mazoti’s encirclement, but time and again, Mazoti’s troops forced them to retreat back up the hill. The constant snow and whipping wind made it impossible to use airships, and the ground was too frozen to dig deep holes for palisades or other fortifications, so Mazoti had to rely on infantry formations that held Mata back by sheer number of bodies.
When Mata retreated, Mazoti ordered waves of Dasu men to charge up the hill. Always, they were repulsed and left many bodies behind. But Mazoti could afford to lose plenty of bodies. She would not give Zyndu’s men a chance to rest, to sleep. She would grind them down.
The temperature dropped further. The Cocru soldiers lacked warm mittens and coats, and their hands stuck to the iron handles of their weapons; they cried out as the skin tore off. They lay down on the frozen ground to try to rest and filled their mouths with handfuls of snow to fight off the pangs of hunger. Many of the horses, having had nothing to eat for days, fell down and were slaughtered for meat.
But there was no talk of surrender anywhere in the Cocru ranks.
“This isn’t right, Marshal,” said Kuni to Gin in her tent. “Too many soldiers are dying.”
For ten days, Mata’s men had held the hill, killing five Dasu soldiers for every Cocru rider that fell from his horse.
“There is a time for finesse, and a time for pressing your advantage with numbers,” said Gin. “If we do not defeat the hegemon quickly, armies from across Cocru will come to his aid and cut off our supply lines. My tactics may be brutal, but they’re working. It has been days since the Cocru men have had anything to eat except dead horses, and most are now wounded. We must press on and not relent.”
“But I know how loyal Mata’s men are; they’ll never surrender. Shall I leave behind as many widows and orphans as Mapidéré as the price of my victory? Even if we win, I will have lost the hearts of the people.”
Gin sighed. Kuni’s streak of essential kindness was not always militarily convenient, but it was why she served him. “Then what do you propose? We can hardly offer a truce again.”
“Lady Risana has an idea.”
From the shadows behind Kuni, Risana stepped forward.
When Jia and his father had been seized by the hegemon, Kuni wanted to send Risana and the children to safety in Ginpen, far from the dangers of the front. He could not afford to lose more family. But Risana had insisted that she be allowed to accompany him to the front.
“The women need an advocate,” Risana had said.
The women’s auxiliary corps created by Gin had contributed greatly to Dasu’s rise. Compared to the other armies of Dara, the Dasu troops ate a healthier diet and kept their armor in better condition, and many Dasu soldiers survived wounds that would have been fatal, thanks to the women’s cool heads and steady hands as they applied healing herbs and wielded sewing needles.
But as the war dragged on, Gin was preoccupied by matters in the field and the administration of her own domain, and the women auxiliaries fell into neglect. While the women in Mazoti’s air force were treated as exceptional and elite, the auxiliary corps in the army came to be seen as mere support. Some Dasu commanders put in charge of the corps had abused their privilege, denying the women their pay, ignoring their grievances, and even treating them as though they were helpless camp followers instead of part of the army.
“My mother and I both worked for a living,” Risana had said. “I can help their voices be heard. What good is my position if I’m not allowed to use it?”
“Marshal,” said Risana, “I may know nothing of grand military strategies, but I do know something about the hearts of men. My talent lies in seeing into the tangled thicket of their desires and perhaps picking out a path.”
Though Gin respected Risana’s wisdom, she was tired and tense, and Risana’s words seemed too obscure. “This isn’t a matter of parlor tricks and seduction.”
“Ah, Marshal, though you have added women to your army, have you ever thought of them as real soldiers?”
Gin narrowed her eyes at Risana but nodded for her to go on.
After she explained her plan, Gin was thoughtful. She paced back and forth in the tent as Kuni and Risana watched. Finally, she looked up. “If this doesn’t work, you will have hardened Mata’s men so that their resistance will be even more fierce. But it’s worth a try. The king will have to speak to them directly.”
Through the snow-filled night, Gin, Kuni, and Risana rode to the camp of the women’s auxiliary corps. The troops were roused in assembly, and they stared at the three riders with consternation. They trusted Risana, who had done much to improve their conditions. But Kuni and Gin had never come to their camp before.
Gently urging his horse forward a few steps, Kuni spoke, striving to be heard above the howling wind and swirling snow.
“Who among you are from Cocru?”
Hundreds of hands rose up.
“I know many of you joined me after you’d lost your husbands and fathers and sons and brothers in the rebellion and the subsequent wars. We have a chance to end the slaughter tonight, but only if you help.”
The women listened, stone-faced, as Kuni explained Lady Risana’s plan.
“You will have to face Mata’s army unarmed and unescorted,” Gin added. “This won’t work if they think you’re a threat or being forced. If they attack, we will not be able to rescue you. The king and I do not demand this of you, if you think it too dangerous or ill-advised. You must volunteer.”
One by one, the women of Cocru stepped forward in the snow, forming a tight phalanx in front of the king, the lady, and the marshal.
Tonight, there was no attack from Mazoti. In fact, Mata Zyndu’s scouts reported that the Dasu army had pulled back half a mile, leaving an empty no-man’s-land around the hill.
Just before morning, women’s voices, carried by the wind, woke Mata in his tent:
Is it snow that I see falling in the valley?
Is it rain that flows over the faces of the children?
Oh my sorrow, my sorrow is great.
It is not snow that covers the floor of the valley.
It is not rain that washes the faces of the children.
Oh my sorrow, my sorrow is great.
Chrysanthemum petals have filled the floor of the valley.
Tears have soaked the faces of the children.
Oh my sorrow, my sorrow is great.
The warriors, they have died like falling chrysanthemum blossoms.
My son, oh my son, he is not coming home from battle.
Mata stood before his tent. Snow fell against him, and his face was soon wet from the melted flakes.
Ratho Miro rode up the hill and tumbled off the horse in front of Mata. “Hegemon, some women of Cocru are halfway up the hill, singing. Though they’re not accompanied by armed escorts, they may be Dasu spies.”
Mata now heard male voices taking up the old folk song, known to every child of Cocru.
“Have so many of our men surrendered to Kuni already, that their voices are so loud?” Mata Zyndu asked.
“The men singing are not prisoners,” said Ratho, hesitating. “They . . . they are our own troops.”
Startled, Mata looked at the small tents around him. Men emerged from them in the predawn darkness. Some wiped their eyes; some began to sing; a few cried openly.
“The women have been singing nonstop for hours,” said Ratho Miro. “The commanders told the soldiers to plug up their ears with wax, but they did not obey. Some of the men have walked down to meet the women, looking for those from their home villages to ask for news about their families.”
Mata listened without moving.
“Should we order an attack?” asked Ratho. “This . . . tactic from Kuni Garu is beneath contempt.”
Mata shook his head. “It’s all right. Kuni has already taken the soldiers’ hearts. It’s too late now.”
He reentered his tent, where Mira sat, working on her embroidery.
Mata stepped behind her and saw that she had only a single black thread on the cloth. It twisted and turned in a jagged path around the white field, but there seemed nowhere for it to run. No matter how it moved and feinted, the round edge of the embroidery ring held it in like a caged beast.
