The Grace of Kings (77 page)

Mata Zyndu rode across the land putting out one fire after another. Kuni's forces would often steal across the Liru River when Mata was away, only to be driven back when Mata returned. Kuni's army could not stand against Mata in a fair fight, and time and again Kuni had to abandon everything and escape to Dimushi.

The stalemate lasted for three years.

CHAPTER FIFTY

GLORY OF THE CHRYSANTHEMUM

COCRU: THE ELEVENTH MONTH IN THE EIGHTH YEAR OF THE PRINCIPATE.

Mata's army was finally running out of food. Years of warfare raging across Cocru and his neglect of administration took their toll. Puma Yemu's incessant raids also played a part, and shipping by sea was impossible with Théca Kimo's ships and mechanical crubens blocka­ding Cocru ports.

The soldiers of Cocru resorted to digging for roots and planting their own vegetables, right in the army camps. Desertion was rampant, no matter how inspiring Mata was.

Every day, Mata launched himself into the air over the Liru on a battle kite.

“Kuni Garu, come into the air and fight me!” he shouted.

Kuni Garu never responded.

Instead, Kuni summoned an airship. To Mata's way of thinking, such an act was despicable, like bringing a knife to a wrestling match. But Kuni was not bound by such scruples.

The airship sailed close to the battle kite, and the crew aboard fired arrows at the flying Mata.

Ratho, who was in charge of the crew winching the battle kite, cursed at the perfidy of Kuni Garu. He regretted defending this man at the banquet in Pan. There was no honor in sending archers when the hegemon asked for a fair duel between equals. He could not understand how Kuni Garu's soldiers could bear to serve such a coward. He shouted for his men to winch the kite down.

But Mata shouted at the winch crew to stop. He opened his eyes wide, stared into the eyes of the sharpshooters on the airship deck, and laughed. He laughed and then let out a long, sorrowful, inarticulate howl that seemed the cry of a wolf in pain.

The sharpshooters flinched, and their shots fell wide. They could not bear to look at the lone figure soaring through the sky.

“How many more years must we fight this war?” asked Kuni. “How many more years before I can see Jia?”

His advisers had no wise counsel this time, not even Luan Zya.

Kuni offered to discuss the terms of a permanent peace treaty.

Again, Kuni and Mata rode out to the middle of the Liru River on flat-bottomed boats. They toasted each other.

“To continue this war would only harm the people of Dara. I cannot conquer Cocru, and you cannot move out of it. Can we agree to divide the world in half? All that is south of the Liru and Sonaru Rivers will belong forever to you, and all the rest to me.”

Mata chuckled without mirth. “I should have listened to Torulu Pering back in Pan.”

“The road both of us have traveled is full of regrets. I would like to call you brother again.”

Mata stared at Kuni, and Kuni's face was full of pain. Mata felt a surge of something akin to compassion. Perhaps honor still resided in the hearts of all men, just hidden more deeply in some than others.

He raised his cup to Kuni. “Brother.”

Mata's march back to Çaruza was long and slow. He had returned Kuni's family to Kuni and granted Puma Yemu safe passage to Géfica if he ceased his raids. His men were tired but happy. The war was finally over.

“Hegemon.” Ratho Miro hurried his horse to ride next to Mata. “Kuni Garu never once defeated you in battle. We just had bad luck.”

Mata Zyndu nodded. He patted Réfiroa's neck lightly so that he was once again ahead, in the lead, alone.

The reunion of the Garu family was bittersweet.

“Mama!”

Timu, now eight, and Théra, now seven, had always been formal and proper with Kuni. But now they left Risana's side and ran with wild abandon toward Jia, hugging her tightly. Little Hudo-
tika
hung on to his father's robe and looked with curiosity at this new, regal aunt he had never met.

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.