The Grace of Kings (11 page)

A summer storm raged across the sky in the northwestern corner of Dara. The peasants of Rui and Dasu huddled in their houses, praying that the rage of Winged Kiji of Xana, god of winds and squalls, would not destroy the crops so close to harvest.

If one listened carefully, one might make out a voice amid the claps of thunder and sheets of rain.

I never thought you, Lutho of Haan, would be the one to strike first. That bit with the fish and the scroll has your handiwork all over it.

The reply, in the old and leathery voice of Lutho, the turtle-­companioned god of calculation and tricks, was as gentle as flippers parting the waves, as soft as a shell scraping across moonlit sand.

I assure you that I had nothing to do with it, my brother. It's true I have a knack for prophecies, but this one surprised me as much as you.

Then was it the Twins of Cocru, sisters of fire and ice?

Two voices spoke together, discordant and harmonious, indignant and calm, like a river of lava flowing next to a glacier. It was Kana and Rapa, the raven-accompanied goddesses of fire and ice, death and sleep.

The mortals find signs where they will. We had nothing to do with starting this—

But you can be sure we'll end it. Even if Cocru lives on only in the heart of one man—

Kiji cut them off.

Save your breath. You still have to find that one right man.

CHAPTER SEVEN

MATA'S VALOR

FARUN, IN THE TUNOA ISLANDS:

THE NINTH MONTH IN THE THIRD YEAR OF THE REIGN OF RIGHTEOUS FORCE.

In Farun, on North Tunoa, the northernmost of the Tunoa Islands, Commander Datun Zatoma was troubled by news of the rebellion on the Big Island.

It was hard to get reliable information. Things were so chaotic. The bandits Huno Krima and Zopa Shigin claimed to have found the rightful heir to the Throne of Cocru, and this new “King of Cocru” had promised to make nobles of any Imperial commander who led his troops to join him.

The empire was in disarray. Ever since the suicide of General Gotha Tonyeti and the execution of General Thumi Yuma, the Impe­rial army had been without a proper commander-in-chief. For two years, the regent and the young emperor seemed to have forgotten about the army entirely, leaving all the regional commanders to their own devices. And now that a bona fide rebellion had broken out, Pan seemed stunned, and even after a month, no gene­ral had been put in charge of an Imperial force to put down the rebels. Each local garrison commander was trying to decide what to do.

It's hard to tell which way the winds are blowing,
Commander Zatoma thought.
Perhaps it's better if I seize the initiative. The earlier I move, the greater my contribution. “Duke Zatoma” has a nice ring to it.

But he was more comfortable behind a desk than on a horse. He needed good, capable lieutenants. In this he was lucky, being assigned to Farun. Tunoa had long been one of the most martial domains in all of Dara, as it was one of the last places in the Islands to be settled by the Ano, who had to pacify the warlike original inhabitants. In Farun, even the girls learned how to throw the javelin well, and every boy over five could wield his father's spear without disgrace.

If he approached the right men, they might be very grateful to get a chance to recover some of the honor of their disgraced families and serve him loyally. He would be the brain, and they would be his arms.

As Phin Zyndu walked through the cavernous halls and long corri­dors of his ancestral castle, he kept the turmoil in his heart off his face. He had not been back here since that day, a quarter of a century ago, when he had been driven away in the darkest hour of the Zyndu Clan. Coming back now at the behest of Datun Zatoma, a commoner in the garb of the conqueror, was not how he imagined his return.

Behind him, Mata hungrily took in the rich tapestries, the intricate iron latticework on the windows, and the paintings depicting the deeds of his ancestors. The heads of the figures in a few of the brush paintings had been torn out by Xana soldiers as souvenirs during the looting right after the conquest, and that lowlife Datun Zatoma had simply left the desecrated paintings in place, perhaps as reminders of the ignominious fall of the Zyndu Clan. Mata ground his teeth to keep the anger within from boiling over. All this, his rightful inheritance, had been soiled by the pig who had usurped his place and summoned them here.

“Wait here,” Phin Zyndu said to Mata. Uncle and nephew exchanged meaningful glances, and Mata nodded.

“Welcome, Master Zyndu!” Datun Zatoma was enthusiastic and—in his mind, anyway—gracious. He clasped Phin Zyndu around the shoulders, but the man did not return the gesture. Awkwardly, Zatoma backed away after a moment and waved for the man to sit. Zatoma folded and crossed his legs, tucking each foot under the opposite thigh in
géüpa
, to show that they were speaking as friends, but Phin knelt stiffly on the sitting mat in formal
mipa rari
.

“You've heard the news from the Big Island?” Zatoma asked.

Phin Zyndu said nothing. He waited for the commander to go on.

“I've been thinking.” This was a delicate matter, and Zatoma wanted to be careful so that his meaning would be unmistakable to Zyndu—and yet, should the emperor's troops prevail and crush the rebels, he would be able to explain his words satisfactorily. “Your family served the kings of Cocru faithfully and well for generations. Many great generals were Zyndus, a fact known to even a small child.”

Phin Zyndu gave a barely perceptible nod.

“There is a war coming, and in war, men who know how to fight are rewarded. The Zyndus, it seems to me, may have interesting opportunities before them.”

“We Zyndus fight only for Cocru,” Zyndu said.

Good,
Zatoma thought.
You are the one who said what needed to be said, not me.

He went on, as if Zyndu had not just made the treasonous comment. “The troops under my command are either aged veterans who can no longer draw a strongbow or fresh conscripts who can't tell a parry from a thrust. They'll need to be whipped into shape, and quickly. I would be honored if you and your nephew would help me in this endeavor. In a time of change, we could rise together and taste glory side by side.”

Phin looked at the Xana man, a supposed commander of the Imperial army. His hands were white, fat, and smooth, the color of a pearl on a woman's ring. These were not hands that knew how to grip a sword or swing an axe.
A bureaucrat,
he thought.
A man who knows only how to push beads on an abacus and to curry favor with his superiors has been put in charge of leading soldiers meant to defend the spoils of the Xana Conquest. No wonder the empire has stumbled so badly before a peasant rebellion.

But as he smiled at Zatoma and nodded, his expression did not betray his disgust and contempt. He had already decided what he and Mata would do. “Let me get my nephew from the hallway. I think he would like to meet you too.”

“Of course, of course! I always like meeting young heroes.”

Phin emerged from the commander's room and nodded to Mata, who followed him back into the room. Zatoma approached, a big smile on his face and his arms opened wide to embrace the young man. But this welcome was a bit forced. The twenty-five-year-old Mata was over eight feet tall and quite intimidating. Also, his double pupils always made others look away. It was impossible to maintain eye contact with him: One didn't know which pupil to focus on.

Zatoma would never learn to get comfortable looking into those eyes. The first time he looked into them was also his last.

He looked down in disbelief. A dirk, thin as a needlefish and now red with his life's blood, was in Mata's left hand and being pulled out of his chest. All Zatoma could think about at that moment was how incongruous the tiny weapon looked in the hand of the giant man.

As he watched, Mata lifted the dirk again and slashed it across his neck, severing his windpipe and major arteries. Zatoma gurgled, unable to speak, and then collapsed to the ground, his limbs twitching as he choked on his own blood.

“And now, you will leave
my
house,” Mata said. Datun Zatoma was the first man he had ever killed. He shuddered with the excitement of it, but he felt no regret or pity.

He stepped over to the weapons rack in the corner. It was full of beautiful ancient swords and spears and cudgels taken from the Zyndu Clan. Zatoma had seen them as decorations only, and there was a thick layer of dust over every weapon.

He picked up the heavy sword—by appearance, bronze—at the top. Its thick blade and long handle seemed to suggest that it was meant to be wielded by two hands.

He blew away the dust and pulled the blade halfway out of its scabbard, made of bamboo wrapped in silk. The metal's appearance was unusual: a somber bronze hue down the middle, as one might have expected, but edges glinting cold and blue in the filtered sunlight from the window. Mata turned it around in his hand and admired the intricate carvings—logograms of ancient battle poems—along both sides of the sword.

“This was the weapon of your grandfather for most of his career, a gift from his teacher Médo when he completed his studies,” Phin said, pride in his voice. “He always preferred bronze because it was heavier than iron and steel, though it could not hold an edge as well and wasn't as hard. Most people could not even lift this sword with both hands, but he wielded it one-handed.”

Mata pulled the sword all the way out of the sheath and swung it through the air a few times, with just one hand. The sword spun in front of him easily, reflecting light like a blossoming chrysan­themum, and he felt its chill wind on his face.

He marveled at its balance and heft. Most steel swords he had practiced with were too light, and their thin blades felt fragile. But this sword seemed to be made for him.

“You move like your grandfather,” Phin said, his voice growing quiet.

Mata tested the sword's edges with his thumb: still sharp after all these years. He could detect no nicks or fractures. He gave his uncle a questioning glance.

“There's a story behind those sharp edges,” said Phin. “When your grandfather was made the Marshal of Cocru, King Thoto came to Tunoa on an auspicious winter's day, constructed a ceremonial dais ninety-nine feet on each side and ninety-nine feet tall, and bowed thrice to grandfather Dazu on the dais so that all could see.”

“The king bowed down to Grandfather?”

“Yes.” Pride overflowed from Phin's voice. “That was the ancient custom of the Tiro kings. When a Tiro state designates a marshal, it is a most solemn occasion, for the king is entrusting the army, the most terrifying engine of state, to a pair of hands other than his own. The proper rites must be followed to show the great honor and respect the king places in the man he names his marshal. It is the only time that a king bows down to another man. Tunoa, the domain of our clan, has witnessed more of these ceremonies than anywhere else in all the Islands of Dara.”

Mata nodded, feeling once again the weight on his shoulders, the history that ran through him. He was but a link in a long chain of illustrious warriors, warriors who had had kings bow down before them.

“I wish I could witness such a ceremony myself,” he said.

“You will,” Phin said, lightly clapping him on the back. “I'm sure of it. As a symbol of the marshal's authority, King Thoto gave Grand­father Dazu a new sword made of thousand-hammered steel, the strongest, sharpest blade metal known to men. But Grandfather did not wish to give up his old sword, for it was a mark of esteem from his teacher.”

Mata nodded. He understood the duty of respect one owed to one's teacher, for the teacher was the model and mold of a man's skills and learning, as the father was the model and mold of a man's form and manners. These were ancient obligations, the kind that secured the world on top of its foundation. Though they were private bonds, they were as important and as unbreakable as the public duties one owed to one's lord and king. Mata keenly and vividly felt Dazu Zyndu's dilemma from decades ago.

Mapidéré had tried to suppress these private bonds and to elevate duty to the emperor above all, and that was why his empire had turned out to be so chaotic and unjust. Mata knew without having to ask that Mapidéré did not bow down to his marshals.

Phin continued, “Unable to decide which weapon to wield, your grandfather traveled to Rima to seek out Suma Ji, the best bladesmith in all of Dara, for help. Suma Ji prayed for three days and three nights to Fithowéo for guidance, and he was inspired to come up with a solution that also led to a novel method of compound blade making.

“The master bladesmith melted down the marshal's new sword. Keeping the old sword as the core, he wrapped it in layer after layer of hammered steel, forging it into a new blade that combined the weight and heft of bronze with the hardness and sharpness of steel. When the forging was complete, Suma Ji quenched it in the blood of a wolf, sacred to Fithowéo.”

Mata caressed the sword's cold blade and wondered how many men's blood it had drunk over the years. “What is its name?”

“Suma Ji named it Na-aroénna,” Phin said.

“The Ender of Doubts,” said Mata, translating from Classical Ano.

Phin nodded. “Whenever Grandfather unsheathed it, in his heart, the outcome of the battle was no longer in doubt.”

Mata gripped the sword tightly.
I will strive to be worthy of this
weapon.

Continuing his examination of the weapons rack, Mata let his gaze travel over spears, swords, whips, and bows, rejecting them all as unsuitable companions to Na-aroénna, but finally, his eyes stopped on the bottom rung.

He picked up the ironwood cudgel. The handle, as thick as his wrist, was wrapped in white silk, stained dark with years' worth of both blood and sweat. The cudgel grew thicker toward the other end, in which multiple rings of white teeth were embedded.

“That was the weapon of the Xana general Rio Cotumo, who was said to have the strength of ten men,” Phin said.

Mata turned the cudgel this way and that, and the light glinted from the tips of the teeth. He could identify some of them: wolf, shark, even a few that might have come from a cruben. Some of the teeth were stained with blood. How many helmets and skulls had it smashed through?