The Grace of Kings (34 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

BATTLE OF ARULUGI

ARULUGI: THE SEVENTH MONTH IN THE FOURTH YEAR OF THE REIGN OF RIGHTEOUS FORCE.

The Island of Arulugi—whose name meant “beautiful” in Classical Ano—lived up to its name: wide, white beaches; gentle, lazy dunes held down by tufts of beachreed; verdant hills covered by
pili
grass; and deep valleys full of forests of banyan and looking-glass mangrove, the aerial roots of the former hanging down from branches like a woman brushing out her hair, and the platelike roots of the latter rising up like lacquer screens imported from sophisticated Gan.

Everywhere, orchids of all descriptions and sizes bloomed: the white ones whiter than seashells and the red ones redder than coral. Golden hummingbirds hovered from orchid to orchid during the day, only to give way to gentle, ethereal moths at night, their wings silvery in the moonlight.

And the crown of Arulugi was Müning, the City in the Lake. Built on a series of tiny islands in shallow Lake Toyemotika—Lake Tututika's baby sister—the city resembled a diadem floating over the water: the delicate spires of its temples and the graceful, thin towers of the palace were connected by a network of narrow, arching bridges that defied gravity.

The houses and towers of Müning were built to make the most of the limited space on the islands. Narrow, tall, and built from flexible walls, they swayed and flexed with the wind like bamboos in a grove. Having run out of space on land, some houses had to be built like water striders hovering above the lake, supported by long pylons sunk into the lake bed.

Floating gardens drifting around the islands of Müning provided its inhabitants with fresh fruits and vegetables. Platforms made of ropes and sweet sandalwood planks hung between the buildings, on which the lords and ladies of Arulugi danced at night in silk slippers and sipped tea as they admired the moon slowly rising over the sea and the port of Müningtozu, on the seashore just a few miles to the east of the lake.

But the jewel of Müning was undoubtedly Princess Kikomi.

At seventeen, her olive-colored skin, rich, light-brown hair that fell in cascades of curls, and bright-blue eyes that shone like two deep, calm wells were the stuff of legends and bards' songs. She was the granddaughter of King Ponahu, the last King of Amu before the Conquest, and his only surviving descendant. But as the laws of succession in Amu did not permit women to accede to the throne, the restored Amu was led by King Ponadomu, the half brother of Ponahu, and Kikomi's granduncle.

In the suspended teahouses of Arulugi, out of the earshot of Ponadomu's soldiers and spies, sometimes you could hear the people whisper to one another that it was a pity that Kikomi was not born a boy.

Alone in her chamber, Kikomi looked at her reflection in the mirror, putting the last touches on her makeup. She had sprinkled gold dust in her light-brown hair to give it the appearance of being blond, and she had brushed blue powder around her eyelids to highlight her blue eyes. The goal was to push her appearance closer to Tututika, the goddess of Amu.

She didn't sigh. Tonight, she would be a symbol, and she understood that whatever else symbols did, they did not sigh and complain about their fate. She would smile and wave and stand silently by the side of her granduncle as he stumbled his way through an insipid speech meant to rally the troops. She would remind the sailors and marines of why they were fighting, of the ideal of Amu womanhood, of the favor of Tututika, of the pride that Amu took in being the epitome of grace and beauty and taste and culture, far superior to the brutality of backward Xana.

But she could not deny that she was unhappy.

As long as she could remember, she had been told incessantly that she was beautiful. It wasn't that her adoptive parents—a couple loyal to her poor executed grandfather who had raised her as one of their own—didn't praise her cleverness when she learned to read and write before all the other children, or that they didn't think it noteworthy that she could jump higher and run faster and lift more weights than her adoptive brothers and sisters; rather, it was that everyone seemed to treat these other accomplishments as mere ornaments on the crown that was her physical beauty.

And as she grew older, that crown had grown heavier. She was no longer allowed to spend her summer days running wild next to the shores of Lake Toyemotika with her companions until, hearts pounding, throats parched, their skin glistening with sweat, they stripped off their clothes and jumped into the cool, refreshing lake for a swim. Instead, she was told how the sun could damage her flawless skin, how running barefoot would lead to unsightly calluses on the bottoms of her feet, how diving into the lake recklessly could risk her getting a permanent scar from the jagged rocks hidden underwater. The only summer activity permitted to her was dancing: in sedate, calm studios where the sunlight was filtered through silk screens and the floor was lined with soft woven-grass mats.

Her plans, nurtured since childhood, of traveling to Haan to study with the masters of mathematics and rhetoric and composition, and of going to Toaza in distant Gan afterward to set up a trading house of her own, were put on hold. Instead, teachers were hired at great expense from the fashion houses in Müning to instruct her in the color and cut and fabrics of different dresses, suitable for different occasions, emphasizing different aspects of her body, which was described to her again and again as beautiful. The teachers also gave her lessons in how to walk, how to talk, how to hold the eating sticks to indicate her mood with grace, how to apply makeup to achieve a thousand different looks, each as elaborate as a painting.

“What use is this?” she asked her adoptive parents.

“You're not a plain girl,” her mother answered. “But beauty must be enhanced to reach its full potential.”

And so instead of rhetoric she studied elocution; instead of composition she studied how to compose her face—with powder and paint and jewelry and dye and frowns and smiles and pouts—to be more beautiful.

It was a cliché for a beautiful woman to complain about being cursed with beauty, Kikomi knew, but just because it was a cliché didn't mean it wasn't true, for her.

When the rebellion happened and the court of Amu was restored, she had thought she would finally earn a reprieve. In a time of revo­lutions and wars, the raising of armies and navies and the promul­gation of new policies, what was the use of beauty? As a member of the ruling house of Amu, Kikomi thought she would be working by the side of her granduncle the king, perhaps becoming one of his trusted advisers. She was intelligent and she wasn't spoiled; she knew the value of hard work. Surely the king and his ministers could see that?

But instead, her body was draped in beautiful dresses and her face painted until she could barely feel her skin move; she was told to stand here or move—gracefully, remember, like dancing, like floating—over there, always displayed prominently, but always told to say nothing, to look serene and demure, to
inspire
.

“You're a symbol of the revival of Amu,” her granduncle, King Ponadomu, said. “Of all the Tiro states, we have always been known for our dedication to the essence of civilization, of grace and refinement. Being beautiful is the most important thing you can do for the nation, Kikomi. No one else can remind the people of our ideals, our self-image, and our goddess as well as you.”

She glanced at the dress hanging from the stand next to the window, the blue silk cut in a classical style meant to evoke more of Tututika. She prepared herself for another night of playing a well-draped and well-painted statue.

“You are like Lake Tututika,” a voice said.

Kikomi whipped her head around.

“Calm on the surface, but full of conflicting currents and shadowy caves underneath.” The speaker was standing in the shadows next to the door to her bedchamber. Kikomi didn't know her, but she was dressed in a fern-green silk dress cut in the modern style worn by all the ladies-in-waiting at the court. Perhaps she was the wife or daughter of one of the king's trusted advisers.

“Who are you?”

The woman took a step forward so that the light from the setting sun illuminated her face. Kikomi marveled at her: golden-haired, azure-eyed, with skin as flawless as a polished piece of amber. She was the most beautiful woman the princess had ever seen, and she looked at once a maiden, a mother, and a crone—ageless.

The woman didn't answer her question, but said, instead, “You wish you would be valued for what you can say and think and do; and you think if you were plain it would be easier.”

Kikomi flushed at the presumptuous statement, but something in the woman's blue eyes, open, kind, placid, made her decide that the woman meant her no ill will.

“When I was younger,” Kikomi said, “I would get into debates with my brothers and their friends. They could seldom win, for their minds were dull, and they did not apply themselves to their work. But often, when it was clear that I had the better argument, they would laugh and say, ‘It's impossible to argue with such a pretty girl,' and thereby deny me my victory. Life has not changed much since then.”

“The gods give us different talents and different endowments,” said the woman. “Do you think it profits the peacock to complain that he is hunted for his feathers, or the horned toad that she is valued only for her poison?”

“What do you mean?”

“The gods may make one plain or pretty, stocky or thin, dull or clever, but it's up to each of us to make a path for ourselves with the gifts we're born with. A toad's poison may take away the life of a tyrant and save a country, or it may become the murder weapon of a street gang. A peacock's feather may end up adorning the helmet of a gene­ral, rallying the hearts of thousands, or it may end up in the hands of a servant fanning a foolish man who has inherited his wealth.”

“Mere sophistry. The peacock does not choose where his feathers may go, nor does the toad her poison. I am but a mannequin that the king and his ministers dress up and put on display. They might as well use a statue of Tututika.”

“You seethe and simmer because you think your beauty traps you, but if you're truly as strong and brave and intelligent as you think you are, you'll understand how dangerous and powerful your beauty can be, if you wield it properly.”

Kikomi stared at her, at a loss for words.

The woman continued. “Tututika, youngest of the gods, was also considered the weakest. But during the Diaspora Wars, she faced the hero Iluthan alone. Dazzled by her beauty, he let down his guard, and she was able to slay him with her poisoned hairpin. That act prevented Amu from being overrun by Iluthan's army, and generations of Amu's people praise her for that intervention.”

“Must a beautiful woman always be a seducer, a harlot, a mere bauble put on display as a
distraction
? Is that the only path open to me?”

“Those are the labels men have put on women,” the woman said, an edge coming into her voice. “You speak as though you despise them, yet you're merely parroting the words and judgments of historians, who should never be trusted. Consider the hero Iluthan, who stole into the bed of the Queen of Écofi, who played with the hearts of Rapa and Kana, who showed his naked body to the gathered princes and princesses of Crescent Island, claiming himself to take equal delight in men and women. Do you think the historians call him a seducer, a harlot, a ‘mere bauble'?”

Kikomi pondered this, biting her bottom lip.

The woman went on. “A seducer is one who wins through deception rather than force, a harlot is one who wields sex like a sorcerer wields a staff, and a ‘mere bauble' may yet
decide
to put herself on display to guide the hearts and minds of thousands into an unstoppable force.

“Amu is in danger, Kikomi, a danger that may reduce this Beautiful Island to rubble. If your head is clear and your heart stout, you may yet see how difficult a path you have ahead of you and how you must choose to make your beauty serve you and your people, rather than curse it.”