The Veiled Throne, page 35
Tanto and Rokiri looked at each other, neither willing to speak.
“Just tell the truth,” Théra said. “Mama won’t get mad.”
The boys were still too young to understand the danger behind such a promise. “Some of the pieces broke when Jian-tika was trying to see how tall a tower he could build,” said Tanto.
Théra took a few deep breaths. “And the others?”
“Kunilo-tika gave them to Nalu,” said Rokiri.
“Did Nalu want them because he was interested in writing?” asked Théra. Hope sprang to life in her heart. If there was interest, she would definitely re-prioritize the suspended plans for a school for the Agon children.
“Uh… no,” said Tanto. “We were playing with his arucuro tocua, and he agreed to a trade.”
“You traded the logogram blocks for some animal bones?”
“You said you wouldn’t get mad!” said Tanto as he shrank from her shouting. “They were tusked tiger bones!”
“I made these blocks to teach you reading! And you just traded them away for garbage—”
“Logograms are boring!” Tanto blurted. “I hate reading! I don’t want to read!”
Théra felt her heart break. She could not believe what she was hearing. “How can you say that? Do you know that Zomi, Mama’s dearest companion back in Dara, once so yearned for knowledge of the Ano logograms that she would rather go hungry than to be denied another lesson? You don’t know how lucky you are—”
“This. Is. Not. Dara.” Tears flowed from Tanto’s eyes as he looked at her defiantly.
Beside him, Rokiri was wailing. “Mama is mad! Mama, don’t be mad!” He tried to wrap his arms about her legs.
A stunned Théra sat down, and hot tears of rage and disappointment spilled from her eyes.
* * *
“Thank you for the moonbread, Princess,” said Thoryo. “The lotus paste is delicious. I’ve heard so many of the soldiers and scholars from Dara talk about it, but this is the first time I’ve tasted it.”
The young woman with no origin had never lost her appetite for interesting new sensations and tastes, and she enjoyed Dara foods as much as she did Agon aromas. She never wielded the butchering knife herself, and the sight of blood still made her blanch, but she did savor the dishes that resulted from the grilling spit.
“I’m glad someone likes it,” said Théra. “My husband and sons won’t touch the biscuits.”
The two were working side by side, cutting the rice stalks with scythes. The water had been drained from the paddies for the first harvest—the climate in Kiri Valley allowed two growing seasons a year—and the pungent fragrance of mud and sap promised well-stocked granaries for the winter.
“Why don’t we take a break?” asked Thoryo. She straightened and wiped the sweat from her brow with a bundle of dried moss tied around her neck with twisted bit of sinew. “You should have some moonbread too.”
Théra looked to the edge of the paddy, where Agon men and women sat in a circle, drinking kyoffir and sharing stories. One of the Agon thanes, a man named Araten, was evidently miming some battle.
Though Théra and Takval had given orders every year that the Agon should help with the harvest, few were willing to set foot in the muddy paddy. Instead, they all claimed to be on “guard duty.” Araten was one of the worst offenders, often proclaiming that stepping in mud sapped warriors of their fighting spirit.
“All right,” said Théra, dejected. “We might as well.”
The two walked to the end of the field and climbed onto a roofed platform. It was where they took their lunch during the busy planting season and kept watch over the crops, shooing away birds and other animals. They looked around. In the other paddies, the only people who worked at harvesting the rice were natives of Dara.
“I just don’t understand,” said Théra, pausing to bite into a biscuit. She chewed, lingering over the luscious flavor before continuing. “This is the only way for us to build up our strength to challenge the Lyucu, yet they act like I’m asking them to wade into lava. I know farming is hard work—”
“The Agon say that enslaving the land is unnatural. They don’t just hate it; they despise it. Besides, eating plants and grains is what the tanto-lyu-naro do—”
“That’s just prejudice! They have to change if they want to win—”
“You’re asking them to become like the people of Dara,” said Thoryo. “But they’re not.”
“At least they’re well fed.”
Théra looked beyond the paddies to the graveyard at the edge of the settlement. Dozens of Dara men and women had died over the years since they had first come to this secluded valley. Some had died from diseases that did not exist in Dara; others had died from attacks by predators, stampeding cattle, panicked garinafins, poisonous plants and mushrooms; still more had died from smelting accidents, exploding kilns, falling timber, collapsed buildings. Bit by bit, members of Théra’s expeditions had tried to re-create pieces of their homeland in this valley, to pass on their wisdom and knowledge to their allies. The headstones marked brave souls who had given their lives to this merciless land for the dream of freeing another people. They would never see their homeland again, and their spirits would never caress another Ano logogram or enjoy the offerings of incense and beer left by their children on the Grave-Mending Festival. Would they even be able to find their way to the River-on-Which-Nothing-Floats to be reunited with their ancestors?
Théra’s eyes grew moist. One of the gravestones belonged to Admiral Mitu Roso, who had died to save a group of Agon children from a pack of wolves that had made its way into the valley. As he lay dying, he had whispered to her, You are the spitting image of your father, and it has been the greatest honor for me to serve you both. Hugolu pha gira ki. Bring my bones back to Dara if you can, Rénga.
But was she in fact as good a leader as her father? She had tried to give the Agon all she could, but the gifts had not always been appreciated. Sure, they took the metal-hardened weapons, but did not care to learn smelting or smithing. They complained about the tiny size of the herd each tribe was restricted to in order to reserve most of the land in the steep-walled valley for farming. They survived on the food that she and her people grew but did not want to get their legs and arms muddy. Even her children could not understand why she looked sad each time another plate from Dara broke or a Dara-made dress was torn.
Thoryo’s lighthearted voice broke into her reverie.
“They say that rice and wheat bloat their stomachs and make them feel like fat cows.”
“What?”
“They think of eating farmed grain as chewing cud.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” Thoryo shrugged. “I can see why they feel that way. They miss the freedom of roaming across the scrublands with their herds and hunting for birds and game at the Sea of Tears. They crave the traditional winter feast, where they could serve ten different kinds of game—”
“Farming is a much more efficient use of our limited land, and hunting is dangerous because it requires sending parties out of the valley—”
“I understand the reasons,” said Thoryo. “But you can’t reason against the desires of the heart. It wasn’t easy to grow the lotus, but you insisted that Razutana and the others try.”
“That’s different! I’m trying to connect my children to their heritage, while they pine after something that will threaten our survival, something primitive and backward!”
Thoryo gave her a strange look. “The people of the scrublands have survived for generations in a harsh land. And based on what you’ve told me, they leveled cities in Dara like a scythe swiping across rice stalks. I don’t think calling them ‘primitive’ is quite right.”
Théra knew, of course, that conditions in much of the scrublands made agriculture impractical. The Agon and Lyucu, like the hardy clenched-fist cactus, crawling waxtongue bushes, and prickly blood-palm grass, were perfectly adapted to the landscape. But this was an extraordinary time that needed extraordinary measures.
“They are as shortsighted as children. I’m asking them to make a temporary sacrifice for a greater victory in the future.”
“But that’s just it,” said Thoryo. “They’re worried about the future, about their children.”
“What do you mean?”
“They worry that if they stay here much longer, living off leaves and seeds dug out of enslaved soil rather than meat fattened by the bounty of the gods and slaughtered by the strength of their arms, their children will grow up as cowards and weaklings, unable to face down a tusked tiger or ride the garinafin into the storm. They’re worried that their children will not grow up to be Agon.”
Théra was stunned. “But of course they’ll be Agon. This is their land. They were born here.”
“What does it mean to be Agon?” said Thoryo. “It isn’t about parentage, for the tribes of the scrublands have always adopted strangers and child hostages into their own ranks. It isn’t about land, for the people of the scrublands are not attached to any single spot and do not claim land with fixed boundaries. It’s about speaking, doing, being, knowing—and that requires practice. It requires play.”
Théra chewed on her biscuit thoughtfully. Thoryo, belonging to neither Dara nor Ukyu-Gondé, sometimes said things that neither the Dara nor the Agon could. She simply loved life itself, and loved all the ways to live.
“You’re wise below your years,” said Théra.
Thoryo cocked her head, a grin on her face. “That doesn’t sound like a compliment.” She took another bite of the lotus-paste moonbread and scrunched up her face in pleasure.
“Oh, it is,” said Théra. “That you can see everything through the eyes of a child is what makes you worth listening to.”
“In the play of children there is much truth and wisdom, no less so than in the songs of shamans or the sentiments of the Ano sages.”
Théra nodded, thinking of her own childhood as she swallowed the sweet paste.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN THE VEILED THRONE
PAN: THE SIXTH MONTH IN THE EIGHTH YEAR OF THE REIGN OF SEASON OF STORMS (KNOWN AS THE EIGHTH YEAR OF THE REIGN OF AUDACIOUS FREEDOM IN UKYU-TAASA, AND THE EIGHTH YEAR SINCE PRINCESS THÉRA DEPARTED FOR UKYU-GONDÉ).
The Grand Audience Hall was deserted.
The walls and pillars, covered in ornate carvings evoking the Hundred Flowers (the gleaming golden stylized dandelions drew the most attention), echoed with silence. The ceiling, covered in murals featuring the deeds of gods and heroes as well as crubens and dyrans cavorting among waves, looked down upon emptiness.
Empress Jia, as Regent of Dara, rarely called for formal court—perhaps once a month, if even that. She found the rituals and rites associated with formal court tedious, and since Emperor Monadétu no longer even lived in Pan, there was no point in keeping up appearances.
At the northern end of the hall was an eight-foot-tall dais, intended for the Dandelion Throne. However, since Dara was under regency, this was her seat during formal court. The Dandelion Throne itself, with an oversized golden dandelion topping the back, had been moved to the foot of the dais, in front of the civil ministers, governors, nobles, and generals who would line up in two columns on the east and west sides of the long hall during court.
Back when Phyro still attended formal court, Empress Jia had asked the boy to sit upon the throne, but with a silk veil surrounding it like the mosquito netting drawn around the beds of wealthy merchants in Wolf’s Paw.
“Why?” Phyro demanded.
“Because you’re here to listen and to learn,” Jia responded. “If the ministers and generals could see your reactions during debate, they would craft their arguments to persuade you. Instead, they should be attempting to persuade one another and me.”
Every birthday, Phyro petitioned for the regency to be terminated and the veil around the throne removed. Always Jia’s answer was the same: “Your father instructed my regency to continue until the heir is ready to take the reins of power. You’re not ready.”
On his twentieth birthday, Phyro asked for something different. He made a plea that the Grand Audience Hall be rearranged so that the sovereign again sat facing north, as had been the custom in the time of Emperor Ragin, the direction of Unredeemed Dara and the Lyucu conquerors, instead of facing south, a change instituted by Empress Jia.
“We must never dismiss from mind the goal of rescuing the people of Dasu and Rui, suffering and dying under Lyucu predation,” said Phyro. “There must be a reminder so we don’t forget to avenge my father, who died without seeing Dara free.”
Empress Jia refused. “War must never be the chief aim of a wise sovereign.”
She had literally turned her back on Unredeemed Dara.
The next day, Phyro took his honor guard and left Pan. He went to Tiro Cozo, a secluded hamlet in the Wisoti Mountains, where the young garinafins hatched from eggs brought by Takval Aragoz were being raised, and vowed to stay there until he could properly sit on the Dandelion Throne.
And so the throne remained empty in the Grand Audience Hall, shrouded in a silk veil.
* * *
Instead of the Grand Audience Hall, Phyro headed for the Inner Council Chamber, a small room in a secluded corner of the administrative section of the palace. This was where most of the policies governing Dara were made and issued.
By the time Phyro entered, everyone was already sitting comfortably in géüpa in a circle, with Empress Jia presiding at one end. The Inner Council consisted of the most senior ministers of the state: Cogo Yelu, Prime Minister; Zomi Kidosu, Farsight Secretary; Than Carucono, First General of the Cavalry and First Admiral of the Navy; Doman Gothu, Head of the College of Advocates; Mi Ropha, Chief Circuit Intendant; and the ministers of carriages and boats, justice, treasury, rituals, agriculture, household registration, and so on—in all, less than twenty men and women.
Doman and Mi, as the most junior members of the Inner Council, shifted their sitting cushions to make space for Phyro.
“Rénga,” said Than Carucono, his voice quavering with emotion, “it’s good to see you here in Pan.” His hair was so white now that it resembled fresh snow. In the sunlight slanting in from the window, his eyes glistened.
Doman and Mi exchanged awkward looks. Several members of the Inner Council had fallen into the habit of addressing Empress Jia with that honorific, but Zomi, Cogo, and Than never used it. To hear Than suddenly say Rénga reminded them that the honorific was supposed to be used only with the emperor.
“You have the same carriage and bearing as your father in his youth—though he was never as fit,” Than went on. “He would be so happy to see you—”
“I’m certain that the emperor is as busy as the rest of the council,” said Empress Jia. “Why don’t we leave private reminiscences until later?”
Phyro smiled at Than. He had always felt a special bond with the old general. Than and Cogo were the last survivors from Kuni’s earliest group of retainers, but Cogo was a refined politician who made disguising his feelings into an art, and Phyro was much more drawn to Than’s army camp manners and unabashed, open displays of affection. As a boy, Phyro had often gone to Than, begging the man to recount for him adventures from Kuni’s youth in Zudi. Consciously or otherwise, the young emperor had transferred some of his filial love for his dead father to the old general.
But as the empress reminded them all, this wasn’t the time to indulge one’s emotions. Calming himself, he nodded at Cogo and Zomi before bowing stiffly to Jia. “Aunt-Mother, forgive me for not coming to ask after your health earlier. I’ve just arrived by airship this morning.”
Jia nodded. “We can have tea after. I hope you stopped by your mother’s shrine at least?”
“I have.”
“Good.” Jia sat up straighter. “You asked to come to the Inner Council and present a new proposal. Go ahead.”
“My proposal is related to the garinafin force at Tiro Cozo. But first, let me speak to you of a boat….”
* * *
The fact that Dara had acquired garinafins from the Agon prince Takval was a state secret known to only a select few. The training base in the Wisoti Mountains, Tiro Cozo, was in a remote valley accessible only by airship. The riders-in-training and the support staff lived there year-round, and the security around the area was so tight that even intruding birds were shot down without mercy.
Princess Théra’s marriage to Takval and the departure of Dissolver of Sorrows, of course, were well-publicized. But when the Wall of Storms opened and then closed almost immediately to destroy the Lyucu reinforcement fleet, it was presumed that Théra and the rest of her fleet had perished as well. A Lyucu city-ship sent by Tanvanaki to welcome the reinforcements had witnessed the sinking of the Dara ships under the assault of a lone garinafin.
The ability of Dissolver of Sorrows and her sister ships to dive underwater was kept from the public, and Empress Jia made the decision to allow most in Dara proper and Unredeemed Dara to believe that the princess was dead. The thought was that if Tanvanaki and the Lyucu invaders felt threatened by the Dara-Agon alliance, they might use Théra’s voyage as an excuse to break the peace treaty and attack. With the Dara fleet destroyed by the Wall, of course, the alliance was assumed to be void as well.
And so a state funeral had been held for Théra, who was posthumously granted the title of Grand Princess. A set of her court regalia was buried in an empty tomb in the Imperial cemetery, next to the empty grave of Emperor Ragin, whose body also had never been recovered.
Zomi, Phyro, and others who knew the truth believed that Théra would succeed in Ukyu-Gondé. Their faith was further strengthened when the great belt current brought turtles with a special message from across the ocean. But that still left the problem of how to defeat the Lyucu in Rui and Dasu.
* * *
“… the refugees were picked up in the Silkworm Eggs by a merchantman from Wolf’s Paw,” continued Phyro. “In accordance with Imperial policy, the refugees were processed in Boama, the nearest large port.”
