Five Kingdoms (26 page)

“Yes, my lord,” Gai Ping replied. Then he went to carry out his duty.

“I will see the Empress now,” Xu Liang decided.

“You are scarcely presentable,” Han Quan protested. “You are weary and...”

“I will see her now!” Xu Liang snapped. He forced calm in the next moment and reached out to the elder, lightly touching his arm, recalling that Han Quan had always been a loyal supporter of the Song family and an ally to him, personally. To doubt him now, at the urging of a nightmare induced by outside magic, was not only ludicrous, but reprehensible. He corrected his behavior immediately. “Please, my friend. I know this must seem confusing to you, but trust that all will be made clear.”

Han Quan’s old face pinched with concern, and a strong distaste for Xu Liang’s escape from protocol and discipline. Finally, he nodded tautly. “Very well. But I must insist that you are at least transferred to fresh clothing. The state of your robes will only further trouble our Imperial Highness.”

Xu Liang knew that he was right and admitted to it with a nod. He turned to Blue Crane and withdrew the scroll case that had traveled with him from Ying, then returned the steed to Shi Dian, who was in the process of leading the animal away to join the others. Han Quan demanded the guard’s attention long enough to instruct him to send a servant to the offices of imperial administration with clean robes. Afterward, both Xu Liang and the Chancellor of the Court were borne by sedan toward the middle court—the Court of Heaven, which contained the residential and administrative offices of the Empress herself.

In a chamber
not far from where the Empress waited within the Hall of Heavenly Peace, having received word that her highest officer had returned and requested an immediate audience, Xu Liang knelt behind a short table, studying recent writings while Han Quan stood over him, relaying events that had taken place in the court during Xu Liang’s absence. The elder spoke of the Empress’ temporary illness, how she was carried out of the Palace of Imperial Peace by guards who had heard her weeping. He mentioned also that doubts had risen among her officers and that even members of her own family had begun to question her abilities to rule during her prolonged meditation. No one had understood the sudden, lengthy ritual—save the few individuals whom Xu Liang had given an explanation to—but they understood well that Fa Leng was being taken, that Xun was rebelling more forcefully than ever and getting away with it. They understood the disquiet among the people as the Imperial Court seemed to sit idle, doing nothing while security slipped in what should have been Sheng Fan’s safest city. Rumors spread like summer wildfire and crime escalated as the iniquitous took advantage of the court’s apparent indolence.

“Why?” Xu Liang asked quietly while he finished reading a letter from the city prefect, Zhu Meng, whose charged districts had suffered numerous riots in the past two months. “Why would all levels of government cease to function in my absence?”

“And the absence of the Empress,” Han Quan added.

Xu Liang shook his head. “No. She was always present. One does not need to look upon her grace to know it exists, or her authority, for that matter. The policies that were to be carried out during her time of solitude were standard, mundane duties that are carried out every month, every week—every day by all who hold office.” Xu Liang lifted the parchment unfurled before him. “Why should Zhu Meng, who has always excelled in his handling of local affairs, seek advice from me on how to deal with peasant uprisings? He must know better than I why they are disgruntled and he must know what is necessary to quiet them.”

Even as Han Quan delivered his answer, a servant begged entrance and was allowed in. “A tremendous unease has been affecting all cities,” the elder said. “We at the Imperial Court are no exception.”

Xu Liang stood while the servant from his own house approached with armfuls of silk in light shades of blue and green bearing images of birds with long, fanciful tails. It was not the peacock—a symbol he often avoided for the sake of his family’s secret—but the bird that had adorned many of his fabrics; the phoenix. He often paid little attention to the selections his tailor made outside of his ceremonial robes, which always included blue dragons, and often depicted clouds in relation to his station as a mystic of the winds. But now it became apparent that he was again faced with the Phoenix. There was no shelter from its presence, not even within his own home, or his own attire.

His apparent interest in the pattern caused his servant to hesitate. Xu Liang dismissed concern and returned his attention fully to the discussion at hand, providing minimal assistance while the middle-aged man from his home went about undressing and redressing him. He listened carefully to Han Quan’s words, knowing that as the other spoke, the Dragon was rising. Where else had this unease come from? He was certainly not in the habit of announcing his movements to the general populace and yet, shortly after he’d departed from Sheng Fan, the people began to react with unsureness and fear, as if they knew why he had gone. But only in the Imperial City. Why?

“It is as if a terrible hand grips the heart of the Empire,” Han Quan continued, seeming percipient to Xu Liang’s thoughts. “It seems to grip the Empress herself. I have seen the fear in her young eyes.”

“The nightmares have returned,” Xu Liang said, not asking, but stating what he had feared.

Han Quan nodded. “She has confided in me that her dreams are filled with dragons.”

Xu Liang frowned curiously, trying to remain patient while the arranging of his new robes persisted, followed by the detangling of his long hair. “Filled with dragons?”

“Dragons, both dark and light, battling each other, until in the end only one remains.”

“Chaos,” Xu Liang uttered unintentionally.

The elder inclined his head, as if in confirmation. “I too have thought of the old legend.” He glanced at the beautiful sword set upon the table in its lacquered scabbard. “I also understand the significance of that sword. The barbarians you brought with you had some impressive looking weapons of their own. Should I assume...”

“Yes, Han Quan,” Xu Liang replied without hesitation. “The Celestial Swords do exist. I have brought them back. With the Empress’ permission, I will unite them all with the entire court in witness. We will have the blessing of the Heavens—of the Jade Emperor himself—to confront this darkness.”

“To confront the rebels from Xun perhaps,” Han Quan said. “They are a physical threat, but here, we do not know what we face.”

“Then we must learn, Chancellor,” Xu Liang told him. “We must seek the source of what troubles the Empress. For surely that is what troubles the people.”

Tests of Trust

“T
his is fantastic
,” Tristus said while he stood in the center of a square room decorated in tasteful, artistic simplicity. The placement of the elegantly carved tables and stands, the lamps, censures, small statues, delicately painted vases, and graceful indoor trees all seemed to work together to invoke an atmosphere of calmness, a serenity that embraced the visitor upon his entrance and drew him inside, inviting him to relax and to think nothing of the world outside. The strangeness of it was that the outdoor area had inspired the same feeling of tranquility within Tristus, as if it were all part of an extended garden.

After seeing that Xu Liang was all right, that he was walking himself from Blue Crane after nearly falling off of the gray steed, Tristus went willingly—almost eagerly—with Gai Ping. He wanted to explore this wondrous inner sanctum of the Imperial City. He wanted to see every detail of it, to drink it all in and savor the sweet, vibrant, and calming taste. After enduring the harshness and hardships of their journey through the Yvarias, he would have thought that the others would want to as well, but when Gai Ping gestured for them to surrender their weapons, the elves and dwarves hesitated. Taya, understandably, was afraid. Tarfan had his dwarven pride to blame, wanting to feel in control of the situation even though he wasn’t. Shirisae was accustomed to giving orders, of course, not receiving them. And Alere was suspicious, wary after the heart-stopping episode of a dozen spear-toting Fanese warriors coming at them.

Trust, Tristus had reminded them.
We must trust Xu Liang
.

He knew the mystic would not let them come to harm, regardless of Alere’s sentiments. He had surrendered
Dawnfire
at once to the elder guard, and when a serious-looking young man in a fanciful blue tunic patterned with images of dragons approached and cast a wary glare at him, he experimented in bowing as he had seen Xu Liang do countless times before. The results were reluctant, but as respectful as Xu Liang had promised. The young Fanese man performed a half bow in response and his expression transformed from concerned to curious.

Eventually, the others had followed Tristus’ example and they were led down paved walkways, along avenues of stone and painted wood, past buildings adorned with red pillars wrapped with carvings of dragons and fronted with red, black, and green latticework, set upon beautifully landscaped grounds. The walls that separated various parts of the city were clean and undamaged, providing a smooth gray—at times ivory-colored—curtain behind rows of slim trees. They had passed more than one pavilion—which appeared exceptionally delicate in their structure—and were brought along a path that followed a wide stream that glistened gold in the sun as it flowed beneath gently arched bridges. They passed over one of those bridges getting to an impressive trilogy of arches each with stairs leading up to them. On the other side of the arches lay more colorful pavilions and finally adjoining structures that may well have been houses. As it turned out, one of them was Xu Liang’s residence, which again, seemed like a series of rooms within a garden. The artistic complexity of the Fanese city was a marvel to Tristus.

If only the people hadn’t stopped their daily activities to stare at the outsiders, it would have been the most perfect sight Tristus had ever laid eyes on—one to be outdone only by Eris itself, had he ever witnessed it. Still, even with the staring, it was wondrous. In spite of the observing strangers, Tristus felt an instant fondness for these people. He wanted to help them, whatever the matter was here…however slight that matter seemed. Some carefully returned observation had him noticing the look of these people again; their intriguing exotic features appearing often thoughtful or curious. Yes, Xu Liang was without question cast from this mold. They were his people, and for that reason alone Tristus had to care about them.

If only certain others could feel the same way. At the very least, they might begin to consider themselves emissaries of their own cultures, rather than the potential prisoners of this one.

“You’re prepared to settle yourself right in,” Tarfan grumbled. “Aren’t you?”

Tristus regarded the dwarf with patience. “Since we’re here, I don’t see why we shouldn’t appreciate our surroundings. What would you have me do? Squat on the floor in a bundle of tension and nerves, like you, Master Fairwind?” He sighed while Tarfan muttered curses. “Look at this place—it’s lovely and peaceful. How can you not relax at least a little?”

“I feel like I’ve been shrunk down and stuck into a tiny ornate box with someone about to stick a bunch of pins into it,” the dwarf growled. “How in the hells am I supposed to relax?”

Tristus couldn’t help the small frown that came to his lips. “You’ve known Xu Liang longer than any of us, and you still can’t trust him?”

The dwarf rose quicker than Tristus would have believed possible, and stomped across the distance between them. He stood rigidly before Tristus, his fists clenched at his sides. “Damn you, boy! This isn’t about the mage! If you weren’t such a whimsy-hearted fool you’d recognize the danger of our situation!”

“Danger?” Tristus echoed with a frown meant to deflect the suggestion. “If they wanted to kill us…”

“Then why aren’t we dead? Is that the simplicity of your reason?” The dwarf glared an instant longer, then threw his arms in the air. “There’s logic for you!” He retreated to one of the cushions placed upon the floor as if to provide seating—there were no chairs in the room except curious ideas of them placed more along the periphery of the residence—and plopped down, folding his arms tightly across his chest.

While his logic wasn’t precisely as simple as the dwarf declared it, remorse filled Tristus immediately. “Tarfan, I’m sorry. I understand that your concerns are very real, but we have no choice but to trust our situation and to wait for Xu Liang to come and explain things to us.” He sighed and sat down upon one of the pillows now himself, feeling suddenly depressed. “At least no one’s staring at us in here.”

“At least there’s that,” Taya agreed with a huff that suggested her tension was in a similar state to her uncle’s.

The elves were busily studying their surroundings—Alere by treading the edges of their space in search of some sign of danger, perhaps, and Shirisae by examining the décor. It was quite different than the art left behind by dragons and the craftsmanship of the dwarves who had helped to build Vilciel. As well, it was quite different from the elven accents that had been lain over both. It was also abundantly separate from the art and architecture of Andaria. The Order had had a sort of admixture of asceticism and richness about it, power marked by riches placed within humble—though still vast—stone structures. It had seemed as if the Church of Andaria acted as a protector of God’s treasures once, but now, looking back it felt more as if the priests and Order Masters were hording riches God would have no use for.

He had been homesick at first, upon starting across the ocean to venture further from Andaria than he could have imagined. And now he was glad to be away. He would serve order another way, and he would do it by trusting the one who had saved him from his exile in the mountains.

The relief that
swept over Song Da-Xiao when she saw her advisor enter the throne room made it almost impossible for her to maintain her calm, stately pose.  She wanted to go to him.  She wanted to abandon the dais and all stationed dignity, and throw her arms around him.  She could do nothing but sit upon the throne, holding her head high in spite of the weight of her headdress—she believed she would endure illness again just for the comfort of letting her hair down—as she looked upon her oath brother with the regal chill her role as Empress required of her.  To display her elation would be to demonstrate her weakness before the other officers of the court, several of which were present to witness Xu Liang’s return. 

They would only have confirmation to what everyone present already knew: that she relied too heavily on the Imperial Tutor.  They would view her tears of joy as feminine frailty and they would misinterpret her deep love for a girl’s petty desires.  As if she weren’t as human as the rest of them.  Sadly, it was in that misconception, that Xu Liang could be counted among his colleagues.  More and more he regarded her as a goddess—his divine ruler—and slowly, the kinship they had known in the years of her father’s rule slipped away.

If only Song Bao had lived.  The people loved him as they would never love her.  
The Empire had felt at peace.  Song Da-Xiao’s world was so simple then and, as princess, how could she have been granted a more appropriate candidate for a husband than Xu Liang?  He was highly respected by the Emperor and had been her brother’s closest friend.  Surely, not even the wisest matchmaker could have denied such a union.  And now it seemed impossible.  Marriage wasn’t even discussed.  Since her ascension, all her officers could talk about was politics, the faltering of the Five Kingdoms Resolution and now, the rising of the ancient Dragon Chaos, symbolized in their empress’ own nightmares and in the nervousness of her people.  There was no time for love in Sheng Fan, and no place for it in an empress’ heart.

Xu Liang made that painfully clear as he bowed formally, speaking in tones of deference, and nothing more.  “My Empress, I thank you for admitting me into your presence.”

Watching his long hair fall over his shoulders, Song Da-Xiao said, “Yes.  There has been much concern about your extended absence, Xu Liang.  
You grace the court with your return.”

Xu Liang bowed once again. When he rose, he presented a scroll. “From Governor Xiang Wu of Ying,” Xu Liang announced.

A servant went to her tactician to claim the item and promptly returned with it to his place near the dais.

Afterward, Xu Liang bowed, deeper than what was customary for presenting a letter. “And now it is with an unhappy heart that I must report the loss of three of your beloved and courageous servants,” he said. “Each of them died with honor, their lives lost to enemies met in the outer realms. I assume all responsibility for their fates.”

Xu Liang knew that they were responsible for their own fates and that it was their duty to sacrifice themselves before allowing harm to come to their master. She could not conceive of what precisely had befallen them, since Xu Liang had not specified, but she understood that her tutor was saddened by these events. By extension, so was she.

With a nod, she accepted his report regarding the lost bodyguards. And then she gestured to the empty space on the dais to the left of her throne and added, “Please, resume your rightful place.  As of now, upon your faithful return, you remain Imperial Tutor and Supreme Tactician in strategic command of my army.  I ask that you continue to serve me as such.”

Xu Liang straightened and gracefully approached the throne.  He bowed once more.  “My Empress, I shall serve you until death.”

Yes
, Song Da-Xiao thought sadly to herself, and how tragically near that had been. Because she loved him so dearly, she was angry with him for the risk he took. She recalled Han Quan’s conversations now, how he had explained that Xu Liang could sometimes take himself too seriously and therefore behave presumptuously, giving counsel as if it were a command that she would automatically follow because of her supreme trust in him. Song Da-Xiao felt that was true to some extent, and she knew also that Han Quan was a person who had earned Xu Liang’s trust. Xu Liang might even agree with the criticism himself, if he were to reflect on his recent actions. Han Quan was not the only officer to tender such comments. Supreme General Yuo Shang had also given his view on the risk of a surplus of authority potentially lending their Imperial Tactician to a deficit in discipline. The Supreme General’s worded concern was that Xu Liang had expanded his boundaries of study further than was required to fulfill his duties. Again, it was a criticism that Xu Liang might agree with.