The Art of Prophecy E-Book

Wesley Chu

• Herausgeber: Daphne Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 904

Beschreibung

Bestselling author Wesley Chu is back with a thrilling wuxia-inspired fantasy that questions what happens when a prophecy goes badly wrong. Prophecies don't make heroes: they only choose them. When Chosen One Jian falls short of his prophesied quest, he must find his own path to greatness. The prophecy is clear: Wen Jian is the Chosen One, born to defeat the immortal Eternal Khan and save the kingdom. The only problem is that the prophecy is wrong. Jian has been raised in splendor, trained by the best warriors, and celebrated before a single battle has been won. After all, he's the chosen one, selected by prophecy to defeat the immortal god-king and free the kingdom for good. But when the prophecy is proven to be incorrect, Jian still has to find a way to succeed—and maybe even become a hero in his own right. To save the kingdom, an unlikely band of heroes rise: Taishi, an old grandmaster who swore her days of battle were over; Sali, a warrior re-evaluating her allegiances; and Qisami, an assassin with questionable values. Together, the four embark on a journey more wondrous than any prophecy could forsee.

Leseprobe

The Art of Prophecy

WESLEY CHU

First published in the UK in 2022 by Daphne Press

www.daphnepress.com

Copyright © 2022 by Wesley Chu

Cover illustration by Tran Nguyen

Cover design by Jane Tibbetts

Typesetting by Laura Jones

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-83784-004-5

Act I

CHAPTER ONE

BROKEN TOYS

The line of broken soldiers stretched out of the training pit and around the arena, spilling out onto the streets. They came in all types and sizes: men, women, tall, short, fat, emaciated, and with varying numbers of limbs. A few were fully armoured, others only in loincloths. All looked like they had stared death in the face and wished not to have survived it.

Ling Taishi leaned over the balcony overlooking the pit. Most of the soldiers—volunteer fodder—kept their eyes low and their shoulders slumped, working hard to avoid attention and hide their defects, inside and out. Taishi could tell what ailed them with just a glance, not that she cared. She had run out of pity years ago. The more pressing thought on her mind as she scanned their ranks was how this rabble could possibly put up a fight against anyone.

An official with his beard trimmed and oiled to a point approached her, his gold-laced crimson robe flapping against his knees. The broccoli shape of his tall black hat placed him as the high lord of the palace. “It is time, emissary. Please allow me to escort you to your seat. I have arranged refreshments. Peaches from my own estates, harvested just a season ago and spirited here for your pleasure.”

Taishi struggled to recall his name. “Thank you, Palacelord Faaru.”

The palacelord led her across the balcony toward an elevated dais, rambling on about his stupid fruit the entire time. “They are so succulent you will believe it is nectar from heaven. My orchards are renowned among all of the Enlightened States.”

Taishi’s face drooped further with each passing description. If the man was as good with training boys as he was with selling fruit, the world could rest easy. Fortunately, it was a short walk to her seat. She sat down on a bed of cushions reserved for high-ranking officials and guests of the court. Taishi technically held no rank and belonged to no court. She had been sent here as an emissary by one of her former students, who also happened to be both her landlord and her actual lord. Saan, the Duke of Shulan, wanted her to appraise how the Prophesied Hero of the Tiandi’s education was coming along. She had wanted to refuse the assignment, but the terms he offered were too good to pass up: tax exemption for life and not going to jail for refusing her duke. Taishi was not a big fan of taxes or imprisonment.

As soon as she settled in, the rest of the crowds on the balcony took their places in the tier below her platform. The arena was surprisingly packed for a simple training session. Taishi wondered how many in the audience were actually paid spectators. As Faaru had promised, a servant appeared with a platter of peaches piled in a pyramid, and placed it on the small table next to her. Taishi was tempted to grab one from the bottom, or better yet wave it off, but being old and irritable was no excuse for poor manners. She plucked the top one and absently bit into it as the guards below cleared the training pit. She stopped and stared at the golden juice sticking to her fingers. By the Queen’s rotted ovaries, the man wasn’t lying. These are damn good peaches.

The palacelord appeared out of nowhere and hovered nearby as she gnawed on the peach, his eyes staring intently. He was sneaky for such a large man. Taishi fought the urge to spit the peach out and sour her face, but there was no sense in wasting quality fruit. She had to give the man his due and so offered him a slight tilt of his head. The palacelord beamed.

The training session was about to begin. Somewhere above, drums rumbled as the lazy and scattered applause from the crowd betrayed their true enthusiasm for the event. Taishi failed to mask her growing irritation. She checked the water clock at the time table. It was nearly noon. Half the day was already wasted.

The first group of toy soldiers paraded into the pit and milled about, uncertain and disorganised. They were ten volunteers in a random assortment of weapons and armour, no two looking like they belonged in the same unit. Taishi pitied this pathetic bunch, these loyal soldiers of the States who hadn’t died in the war, but hadn’t necessarily survived it either. Now they were left to eke out a living the only way they could: becoming training toys to a boy playing war. There was the pikeman with the distant stare. The swordswoman with the shaking hands. The young man missing the rest of his arm below the elbow cowering behind her…Taishi shifted her own mangled arm hanging useless by her side. Well, one should only underestimate at their own risk.

The training overseer stood and clapped his hands. “You all have the honour of aiding in the training of the undefeated Champion of the Five Under Heaven, the terror of the Katuia Hordes, and the saviour of the Zhuun people. Fight bravely, but remember your place. The penalty for injuring him is death. The penalty for drawing his blood is death. The penalty for refusing to engage is death.” The overseer continued, rambling off another ten or fifteen rules. By the time he was done, Taishi wasn’t sure how any fighting was possible. “Any questions?” he intoned.

The small group looked dejected, and as baffled as she was. One woman wearing half the banded armour of a light cavalry unit raised her spear. “What if he’s about to kill us?”

“Then die honourably. Try not to if you want to get paid.”

“Wait,” another asked. “He can attack us, but we can’t attack him?” This had to be his first day.

The training overseer sounded hassled. “Of course you are allowed to fight back. Just don’t injure him.”

Faaru leaned in. “Are you enjoying the delicacies, emissary?” Her muffled slurp was answer enough. She helped herself to a second peach and slipped a third into her pocket. He gestured toward the pile of peaches. “If you wish for more, emissary, you need only ask.”

The palacelord was being awfully pushy about his silly fruit. Then she noticed the decorations on the plate. A long string of gold liang looping through the peaches at the base. The coins, ducal-stamped from the Gyian mint, formed a glimmering yellow snake linked together through each liang’s square hole. That much money was more than enough to pay off most emissaries. Far too generous, in fact, which made Taishi only more suspicious. She looked back at Faaru, and his smile widened until the corners of his mouth nearly touched his long earlobes.

There was a reason Saan had sent her instead of the usual court buffoon. Taishi ignored the bribe and turned her attention back to the pit. “Get on with this. I have other things to do with my day.” Like soaking my feet in a hot bucket.

He stiffened and gestured to the overseer. “As you wish, emissary.”

The overseer began to speak again, his voice carrying across the arena. “Behold, Wen Jian, the Prophesied Hero of Legend, the saviour of the Zhuun people, the one foretold by the Tiandi Prophets, under the sign of a thousand stars, to fulfil his destiny and lead the mighty armies of the Enlightened States to victory over the terrible, evil, savage hordes of the Katuia Clans, break the immortality of their Eternal Khan, and bring everlasting peace to the Children of Zhuun. Bear witness…”

Taishi rolled her eyes. So much stupid pomp. She mouthed silently and carried her whisper on the wind to the man’s ear. “Skip the rest.”

The overseer’s voice cracked. He glanced around and then cleared his throat. “Let the round begin.”

There were still a few seconds of excessive drumbeating and fanfare before the gates below the balcony finally opened. Five imposing figures in heavy armour cut long shadows into the sand. They wore elaborate helmets shaped like animal heads, which she thought was a nice touch, and moved with the swagger of opera villains. They looked like the guardians of the gate to some mystic zoo. Taishi was entertained.

Meanwhile, the sacrificial lambs on the other side of the arena looked as if they were about to soil themselves. Following the five horned warriors appeared a much more diminutive figure, but to much greater applause. About damn time. Taishi crossed her arms and leaned forward. She had met many legendary masters in her day, but this was the first time she was going to see a legend.

Her initial impression of the Hero of Prophecy was lukewarm. The hero everyone was fawning over was a scrawny teenager wearing only black breeches cut off just below the knee. His skinny chest was defined but flat, his arms were taut but stick-thin, and his skin was pale as ox milk. His black headband made his dark hair stick out like a bird’s nest, but his round boyish face was clean and manicured.

“Put a shirt on before you blind someone,” she muttered.

Her first thought was that it was strange for the hero to be so lightly armoured compared with his bodyguards, but of course a teacher couldn’t check a student’s form and technique under several layers of armour.

The boy flourished his sword above his head, and then moved his hands apart to reveal that it was in fact two identical blades. He twirled the two swords around his body and loosed a reasonable attempt at a war cry, his voice cracking at the tail end.

Taishi raised an eyebrow. “This should be interesting.”

Double straight swords: a bold choice, a weapon that was very difficult to master. It was Taishi’s personal opinion that double straight swords were the wrong weapons in every fight, no exceptions. She leaned forward and studied the stillness within him: His eyes were up and steady, his footwork relaxed, his form and balance proper, his guard held correctly. So far so good. Like a prize horse, he looked the part. But as her own father and master had taught her a lifetime ago, You can tell a war artist’s true ability in three moves. Everything else is just a rooster’s strut.

His pitiful challengers advanced, the boy moved, and the action unfolded more or less as expected. Jian and his overdressed bodyguards fanned out. The toy soldiers made halfhearted attempts at combat, while the demon-helmed guards basically postured picturesquely in the background. The boy did actually do all the work, if it could be called that.

Taishi hated to admit it, but at first she was grudgingly impressed. He looked good. His movements were crisp, his balance and ability to change directions impressive, and his reflexes sublime. Her eyes sparkled as the boy effortlessly transitioned between techniques. Most important, she could tell by the snap and fluidness of his attacks that his jing, his energy, was strong. Taishi couldn’t recall the last time she had witnessed such martial beauty in one so young.

“He might actually be as good as his legend,” she marvelled.

And yet, he should have been dead five times over.

“Should have gotten stabbed there,” she counted under her breath. “And there. Dead there, there again. There goes his left arm.” The longer the melee continued, the more problems she found. It wasn’t so much the boy’s abilities or technique that were at fault, it was the way he put everything together. In isolation, each movement was timed and executed flawlessly. Once she examined the fight in its entirety, however, something looked off. It was in the flow of the battle, the almost rhythmic pacing of the action, the stuttering exchanges, and the awkward angles.

“He’s overthinking, and no one else is actually trying,” she muttered. The boy didn’t bother with his defence, because no one posed anything remotely resembling a threat.

As the round continued, the smile that had crept onto her face faded, replaced with a forced neutrality that she kept up for as long as she could, but inevitably melted into a scowl as if she smelled something rancid. Once she realised what was happening, she couldn’t help but notice it in every movement, every exchange. If the boy made a mistake, his opponent would actually hesitate to compensate for it. It wasn’t real. His opponents were making sure the boy looked good. This whole thing wasn’t choreographed, but maybe it should have been; then maybe Jian’s many flaws wouldn’t stand out so easily.

Jian squared up with his last remaining challenger. The man feinted, then swung his horse-cutter in a long overhead swing. Taishi could have taken a nap in the time it took the blade to reach its target. The boy blocked it competently and countered. Block, parry, dodge. The two moved as if underwater until Jian finally jabbed his opponent in the thigh.

All of the fodder had been vanquished, left writhing on the sand. The poor young man missing a hand almost lost his other one, having suffered a deep gash down the length of his arm that would require stitches. The rest of the sad rabble picked themselves up and dragged themselves to the other side of the training grounds.

The crowd all rose to their feet when the last soldier fell, clapping as if that Champion of the Five Under Heaven had just single-handedly beaten back the Katuia Hordes, bare-chested, with only his hands. Taishi stayed in her seat. The peaches had been more impressive than what she had just seen.

The overseer banged on his gong. “There will be a fifteen-minute intermission between rounds,” he declared, again to scattered applause. “Bring out the refreshments.” A small army of attendants came jogging out onto the pits, carrying tables and chairs and food and drink.

Taishi frowned. “Fifteen minutes? Refreshments?”

“The young hero needs to recuperate between rounds, emissary,” Faaru explained. “It gives the masters the opportunity to dispense their wisdom.”

Taishi’s gaze drifted to a group of eight extravagantly dressed men hurrying down the stairs into the pit and clustering around the boy, jockeying with one another to whisper in his ear. All wore colourful pageant sashes over one shoulder. A beauty pageant for old ugly self-important men, Taishi thought. She nudged Faaru. “Who are those peacocks?”

“Those are the young hero’s teachers,” exclaimed Faaru, his chest puffing out. “As you can see, we’ve recruited the finest masters from across the Enlightened States. The one speaking is Master Sun. Next to him is Master Hili, then Master Pai, Master Ningzhu, Master Luda…”

Taishi stopped listening after that. Of course. That explained the colour-coding. It was the latest rage among war arts schools. It gave the students some stupid sense of tangible accomplishment to cling to. These lofty titles, ranks, silly sashes, fancy names were all nothing more than marketing ploys for those who lived outside the lunar court, the secretive underground community of war artists residing on the fringes of order and society.

She reminded herself that the masters charged with training the Prophesied Hero were political appointees and had little to do with any actual ability or skill. She turned her nose. “The corruption of the States extends even to our salvation.”

Still, eight war arts masters, one student. How does that even work? A student with more than one master only makes for an indecisive student. In the heat of battle, which master’s voice would ring loudest? Taishi flicked her hand toward those masters and drew their voices back to her.

“Use the front sweep next time against a shield.”

“Jump downward, thrust when their guard is low.”

“Feint first. That’s why you have two blades.”

“Double thrust. Always be on the attack.”

That answered her question: It didn’t. It was a dizzying amount of information, some contradictory. The poor boy must be so confused.

One of the peacocks noticed Taishi staring and broke off from the group. He approached the dais and offered her a generous bow and a wide smile, exposing two rows of yellow teeth. “Such an honour to meet you again, Master Ling. Truly one of the grand legendary masters. I once had the privilege of witnessing your feats at the Shulan Moon Festival Tournament. You were spectacular, truly invincible that day. I’m sure you still would be”—he glanced at the mangled arm hanging useless by her side—“if it weren’t for your unfortunate injury.”

Still can beat you senseless with only one arm, you puffed-up fungal wart. She offered him a withering glance. “Who are you again? Apologies. Along with my useless arm, I also suffer from face blindness.”

“Sinsin. Master Le Sinsin. As you can likely tell from the hero’s movements, he leans heavily on my family style. If I—”

“That tells me all I need to know.” Taishi put a hand up to Sinsin’s face before he could say another word. She turned to Faaru. “Start the next round.”

“But the intermission—”

“Now!”

The palacelord blanched and then bowed. He signalled to the overseer, who had also taken a seat to take advantage of the refreshments. The man quickly replaced his pear-shaped hat and gave the order to clear the floor. The audience grumbled as they returned to their seats.

“Uncle Faaru, what is the meaning of this? Why is this break so short? Who is that woman?” a high-pitched voice said across the pit. Jian was staring straight at her. He had just sat down and was having his forehead dabbed with a wet cloth.

“Uncle”? The ends of Taishi’s lips curled.

“It’s no one you need to be concerned about, saviour of the Zhuun,” replied Faaru, waving with both arms, swishing his giant sleeves about.

“We can’t start the next round yet. We haven’t finished our refreshments. My unit needs to rest.”

Bonus points for being considerate, offset by the fact the boy thought those five clowns fighting alongside him actually needed rest after three minutes of posing. His people looked uncertain. Three stood up and reached for their helmets while the remaining two stayed seated and continued to slurp their drinks.

The new group of sad fodders that had just been led into the pit for the slaughter looked equally puzzled. These poor cracked eggs were even more pathetic than the last: an old man and two women equipped with matching broadswords and shields. They were probably from the same regiment. They were joined by two others, a sickly man with emaciated arms wearing wooden armour and wielding an oversized axe, and another man wearing only a tight loincloth held together by a few desperate threads and holding a mancatcher over his shoulder. The remaining four looked like peasants carrying farming tools.

The two sides faced each other once more. Taishi wrapped her hands around the railing and squeezed until her knuckles turned white. This was a waste of time. She was tempted to just leave. She had just started to rise out of her seat when a wicked little spark tickled her. She decided instead to stay and prove a point. Taishi really did love making fools of fools.

As the overseer began his long-winded introduction, Taishi carried her whisper to the greybeard leading the fodders. “Seize the advantage while they are unprepared. Move first.”

He hesitated. “But we’re supposed—”

“Now, soldier. Split that gap on the right flank. You have a straight shot at your target. Seize your moment.”

Her whispers spoke to his desires. Soldiers, no matter how beaten down, never lost their taste for victory. Taishi just had to reawaken that part of them. A glint appeared in his eyes as he clenched his jaw and raised his shield to his body. Someone down in the pit was finally taking the fight seriously.

The greybeard, used to following orders, did as he was told and charged, much to the confusion of his squad. He ran between two of Jian’s heavily encumbered bodyguards, who were thrown off by the grizzled veteran’s sudden, aggressive tactic. They just stood there, exchanging I-thought-you-were-supposed-to-get-him looks. Their confusion was brief, because the women behind the greybeard, also pushed by Taishi’s whispers, crashed into them a moment later. The audience next to Taishi sat up in their seats. For the first time possibly ever, a real fight was brewing below.

Jian looked like a startled rabbit as the soldier bore down on him, shield up and blade forward. He sidestepped the charge clumsily and made a looping swing with his sword that bounced off the edge of his opponent’s well-placed shield. The greybeard gave Jian little quarter as he pressed forward, poking at the many holes in the boy’s defence. If it weren’t for the old man’s old reflexes and the young man’s young reflexes, the fight might have ended right there.

Faaru hissed at the overseer. “What is the meaning of this? End the round. End the round!”

“No,” Taishi barked. “Ring that gong and I’ll put your head through it.” The overseer froze in mid-swing and then threw his hands up as if trying to surrender.

The ends of her lips curved upward as she gleefully scattered more encouragement and orders. “Are you meat for the butcher or are you fighting soldiers of the Enlightened States? Use your numbers. They’ve abandoned the centre. The Ram-Head is overextended. You two farm boys, Hoe and Shovel, get on either side of him. Mancatcher, come around behind and take Bull from the back. Sword and Boards, get around Lion’s flank. You two with the spears, pull back. No, your other back, you idiots.”

Bull and Lion were quickly brought down while the other animals were busy retreating to the boy’s rescue. By the time they had cut down the greybeard, the odds had turned. Ram got speared in the back while Rooster got bashed in the back of the head. That left the hero and Bear, who found themselves outnumbered.

On the balcony, Faaru stomped his way to the overseer, grabbed the mallet from his hand, shoved the man aside. He was about to signal the end of the round when Taishi flicked her hand, snapped the gong off its hinges, and sent it rolling on its side down the stairs. “Finish the round. I want to see a winner.”

“But—”

Taishi looked him square in the eye. He shut up, but not before whispering something in the overseer’s ear. Taishi pulled the sound over to her.

“Call in the second group. Hurry.”

Four more animal heads ran into the pit, some still strapping on their armour. The fifth hopped in a moment later, trying to lace his sandal. The fodders would not have noticed these reinforcements had Taishi not sent them a warning. They regrouped to face the new threat, but now they were sandwiched and facing off six to seven, the advantage to the animal heads.

Jian looked tentative, lost. This was probably the first time he had had to deal with uncertainty in the pit. It took him a moment to collect himself. He charged one of the farmers sword-first, piercing his gut. Then Jian waved to rally the rest of his unit.

That earned him Taishi’s approval. The audience in the stands broke out into a chant, encouraging the young hero, applauding when he stabbed one of the spearmen who, because of a bad leg, was not able to retreat quickly enough.

Taishi gritted her teeth as the animals closed in on her outnumbered and overmatched renegades. Her eyes darted around the grounds. Her options were limited up here. She had only so much to work with. She should probably let it go. Her ragtag squad would likely lose now, but her point had been made. The rest of this exercise was irrelevant. Winning or losing in practice was just about pride.

Taishi let herself sink back down into the pillows and fingered another peach. She was about to take another bite out of it when she hesitated. Her pride wouldn’t allow her to lose, not even during practice. She chucked the peach into the pit, bouncing it off the helm of Snake. Then Taishi shot out of her seat, finding a soft, whimsical air current to carry her across the arena. The currents here were tame, lazy, forcing her to jump across three more before her toes touched down on the helmet of Elephant, bounded off the shoulder of what she thought looked like a fox, and landed in the sand between her troops and this tacky menagerie.

Snake pulled up short, mouth wide, the axe in his hand quivering.

A wry smile grew on her face. “You’re allowed to try to hit me.”

Snake accepted her challenge and made a good effort as the tip of his blade nearly gashed her robe when he streaked past her. With three quick strikes of the tips of her fingers, Taishi sent him flying off to the side. Fox came next, followed closely by Wolf, or possibly Badly-Designed-Monkey? Fox was blinded by a puff of air before Taishi slapped the consciousness out of him. Wolf-Monkey swung a heavy mace at full force, a killing blow. She diverted its trajectory with the tips of her fingers. He followed up with a series of snapping kicks, which she danced around like a leaf swirling in the breeze.

Taishi countered with her own soft kick to the flesh of his neck, a blow that would have crushed the man’s throat if she had wished it.

Faaru ran down the stairs to the pit, his generous robes fluttering as he flapped his arms. “This has gone far enough. Stop this at once!”

Taishi sent her whispers to the squad around her. “This is your chance. Seize your glory.”

These were true soldiers who had lived through real war, survived death, and sacrificed everything to end up disposable practice targets. They obeyed. They had nothing left to lose, and a trapped enemy was the deadliest. They surged past her, surrounding and hacking at the boy’s remaining animals.

Taishi stood in their midst, intervening with only a few more whispers. Within seconds, it was over. The Prophesied Hero was surrendering to a farmer and a naked man. The loincloth had not survived the fight.

The arena fell silent, save for the laboured panting of the participants as they picked themselves up off the sand. Jian stood in the middle of it all, stunned. His various masters seemed no less so.

The ego was a fragile thing; Taishi knew well enough.

Taishi helped the axeman who was struggling to stand. She gave him a pat on the rear as encouragement and wiped her dirtied hands on his shoulders before launching herself back to the balcony. Two delicate steps off the railing and floor and she was back in her seat, reaching for a peach.

Taishi turned to Faaru. “My office, now.”

The palacelord looked equal parts terrified and confused. “But you don’t have an office…” He froze, and then dropped to his knees, his head bowed low.

She did now.

CHAPTER TWO

THE HERO OF PROPHECY

Wen Jian, the Hero of Prophecy, Champion of the Five Under Heaven, saviour of the Zhuun People, terror of the Katuia Hordes, was having a tough day. He had just lost the first match of his life, broken his favourite practice sword against a wall in a fit of anger, received two splinters, and had now missed dinner because of a summons from Uncle Faaru.

Jian left the tower he called his home, ritualistically slapping the stone placard with the inscription TOWER OF ETERNAL HEROISM, and crossed over to the now-deserted Heavenly Grounds. He ignored the crowd of long shadows and soft stampede of footsteps that trailed behind him as he made his way to the Heart of the Tiandi Throne at the centre.

The King, blazing gold, was just about to set for the day while the Queen neared her zenith as she followed her husband across the sky. Their twin children, the Prince and Princess, were just beginning their ascent, climbing from the southern horizon. The night this time of the year was particularly bright with all three moons shining fiercely, adding hints of blue, green, and purple respectively to the landscape.

Jian’s mind raced furiously, mostly in circles, as he hurried to answer Uncle Faaru’s summons. A hundred worries plagued him as he relived the humiliating events of the morning. What had happened? How had he lost? He had done everything right. Had the masters cancelled this evening’s training to discuss his failure? He hoped so. Someone had to take responsibility for this unacceptable development. He was the Prophesied Hero. No one was allowed to do this to him.

He could come to only one logical conclusion: The peasant woman—the one Jian had originally taken for a servant who had forgotten her uniform—must have cheated. Why was she important enough for all the masters to fret over? She had thrown him off guard when she had leaped off the balcony and attacked him unprovoked. He hadn’t been ready. It wasn’t fair. She shouldn’t have been allowed to do that.

Jian fought his anxiety and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. Heroes did not bite their nails. Heroes did not cry. It was times like this Jian was grateful that he was alone with his thoughts. He would have been dreadfully ashamed if his masters or Uncle Faaru saw him in such a state.

He was the greatest prodigy in all the Enlightened States. Everyone told him so. Constantly! It was his destiny to become a great warrior, to lead the Zhuun to victory over the vicious, evil Khanate Hordes and to bring peace to the world. That’s why he had been born into this world and lived here in the Celestial Palace. It was why all the best masters had been gathered to train him. It was why, throughout his entire life, he had been undefeated in the training pit. Because all of these were true, so the only explanation was that the old woman had cheated in order to make him look bad. But why?

Jian was both relieved and enraged. Too many people depended on him for him to fail. Cheating for the sake of shaming him was unacceptable. He brooded, his fingers curling into fists and threatening to punch holes in his pockets. A muffled growl escaped his lips as he stomped the tiles toward the Heart of the Tiandi Throne.

He stepped to the base of the Thousand Steps to Wisdom—it was technically only 814 steps—and sprinted up. A small parade of footsteps and heavy breathing followed as he bounded up three steps at a time. He reached the top slightly winded and sucked in two long breaths. Jian hadn’t meant to sprint all the way up, but his body tended to run alongside his mind when he fretted. It wouldn’t do to make his appearance looking out of sorts. He held out his hand. “Handkerchief.”

No one appeared. A second ticked by. Jian didn’t bother masking his annoyance as he shook his free hand. A few moments later, the heavy breathing caught up to him. The towel attendant, a grizzled old man, stuttered a profuse apology and bowed low before dabbing Jian’s forehead with a silken wipe. It didn’t help much. Not in this weather.

Jian held out another hand. “Drink.”

The cupbearer appeared, holding a tray of chilled peach juice. The boy was equally out of breath and had spilled some of it on his sleeve. Jian let it go. He went through so many cup boys he couldn’t keep them straight. He looked again and corrected himself: cup girl.

“I need to take another bath,” he muttered.

“Yes, saviour of the Zhuun,” another voice piped up from behind him. “It’ll be ready by the time you return from the throne room.” A pair of footsteps faded down the stairs.

Jian walked up to the grand entryway into the Heart of the Tiandi Throne. Two members of his retinue had hurried ahead to the large double doors and were waiting to open them and present him. He acknowledged Horashi and Riga with a curt nod as he stopped and straightened his wrinkled robe as best he could. Unlike the rest of his retinue, Jian’s personal bodyguards were not replaceable or disposable.

The two honour guards, one a grizzled veteran nearing the end of his tenure while the other was still entering his prime, were both in dress armour with silver-plated sabres hanging off their waists. Both were decorated war artists who had pledged their lives to serve and defend against all threats to his person.

Instead of giving the signal, Jian took in several deep breaths as he gathered his thoughts and mustered his confidence. His fingers whitened as they curled tightly around the intricate black wooden lacquered patterns on the door frame.

“Are you ready, saviour?” asked Horashi, the older one with a patchwork of sparse, unruly short hair, and the scars to mark his long and distinguished career. “Is something on your mind?”

A sigh escaped Jian’s lips. “I’m just angry.”

Riga, the younger one with an unmarked face and full mane of black hair pulled into a ponytail, held on to the other handle. “Angry about losing the sparring match?” Riga was new, a recent replacement for a previous bodyguard who had died during a Katuia assassination attempt nine months ago. He was polite enough, but Jian chafed at the fact the man rarely showed proper deference.

“I didn’t lose. It wasn’t a fair fight.”

His bodyguard shrugged. “Battles aren’t always fair. I once cut in line at the brothel for the most popular girl. Seven people jumped me.”

“Seven on one doesn’t seem fair at all,” agreed Jian.

Riga shrugged and patted his belt. “The only thing that wasn’t fair was I still had my sword.”

Horashi crinkled his forehead. “Your five heavily armed guards against those broken soldiers they picked up off the street wasn’t a fair fight?” Deep lines etched his bald head. “Fair to whom?”

The older bodyguard was the only person in the palace that could speak to Jian so directly. Horashi had been at Jian’s side for as long as Jian could remember. Throughout the years, a carousel of attendants and bodyguards had come and gone, but he had been the one constant. Horashi had been a young man when he had first come into Jian’s service. No one would accuse him of that now.

“Who cares about fair?” argued Riga. “The only people who are concerned about fairness are stupid or dead.”

“In war, perhaps,” said Horashi. “In the arena, rules and honour must be observed.”

“Enough,” said Jian, absentmindedly. The two didn’t see eye to eye on much, and always made their differences loudly known. It gave him headaches. Horashi and Riga obeyed immediately. Jian crossed his arms. “That old woman cheated. That loss shouldn’t count. I remain undefeated. I’ll present my case to the masters and have today’s results annulled.”

“It’s only a practice…” A sigh escaped Horashi’s lips. “As you say, saviour.”

“I’m ready now. Open the door.” Jian tugged at his sleeves. “It’s time we remind everyone why they’re here.”

Before the doors opened, Horashi bent down and adjusted his collar. The older man wet his thumb and wiped Jian’s cheek and brow. When Jian shied away, Horashi broke into a grin and tousled his hair. “Now you look the part of the hero. Remember, confidence through humility.”

The doors swung open and struck the arrival gong. His two bodyguards walked in first, then Jian, and then his attendants. He was about to call for the Voice of the Throne Room to announce him when he paused. There was no Voice present. In fact, there was no formal audience here. The throne room was empty except for a small group of people at the base of the throne at the far end, all with their backs turned to him.

Their commotion filled the space. Everyone was speaking angrily, their words muddling as they echoed across the expansive room. Their bickering sounded like a night bazaar. Undeterred by this lack of reception, Jian stormed into the Hall of the Edified Thoughts with Horashi and Riga flanking him. It wasn’t until he had almost reached the group that someone finally noticed him.

The peasant woman who had interrupted his training was standing at the centre of the commotion. She stepped out from the group and levelled a finger over Jian’s shoulder. “Who by the Queen’s skirt are they?”

A surge of indignation coursed through Jian. That wasn’t the sort of greeting he was used to. “How dare you…You address…” The words died in his throat under her gaze.

“No, not you.” She pointed past his shoulder. “Them.”

Jian followed her finger, confused. He raised his chin, defiantly. “They’re my attendants. They see to my needs and comfor—”

“Get out. You are all dismissed.”

Jian would not back down so easily. “I need them!”

“Out now!”

The poor attendants milled back and forth, trying to decide which order to follow, each trying to shrink behind another. Finally, to Jian’s chagrin, they took the side of the thunderous peasant woman. The cupbearer, in tears, approached Jian and bowed, offering her cup. Then she fled the room. The rest of his retinue followed suit, until only Horashi and Riga remained. His two stalwart bodyguards crossed their arms defiantly.

The woman whipped her attention back toward Faaru. “That proves my point exactly!”

Faaru broke away from the group and placed himself between Jian and the woman. “Great saviour of the Zhuun, if I may introduce Master Ling Taishi, of the Windwhispering School of the Zhang lineage. Family style—”

“That will be enough, Faaru,” she replied, not taking her eyes off Jian.

“Today was an outrage, Uncle.” Jian was comforted by Faaru standing close by. “My training is important, and cannot be disrupted by any peasant who…”

His voice trailed off. For the first time, Jian noticed the heaviness in the air. This was not a happy room. Wang wore his fighting face. Sinsin looked more offended than usual, and Sun was sniffing loudly as if trying to hold back tears. The only person who did not look outraged or devastated was this Ling Taishi person. Who was she, and who had ever heard of a master who didn’t announce their family line? That was the first thing all his masters made him memorise when he began his tutelage under them. Was she not proud of her lineage?

Jian tried to meet her gaze, but his eyes slipped away the moment they met hers, and he found himself counting his toes. “Master Ling,” he managed to mumble. He tried to face her again, but those eyes…His fled to the safety of the floor the second time he tried, then retreated to the group of friendly faces. “What is going on, masters?”

Ningzhu folded his arms. “Master Ling believes we have been deficient in your training.”

“She feels some of us who have dedicated our lives to you aren’t necessary,” added Sun.

“She implies that we are poor and ineffective masters,” said Hili.

“She even went as far as to accuse me of being a fraud,” added Jang.

“Now, now,” said Faaru. “I’m sure the emissary wasn’t being literal.”

Taishi sneered. “Oh no, I was. The lot of you frauds and sycophants are a pathetic disgrace to your titles and stations.”

The masters erupted at the insult. Only Faaru, who looked decidedly uncomfortable and nervous, and Taishi remained silent. She looked bored. The old woman pulled a peach from her pocket and bit into it.

“Now, now,” said Faaru, waving his arms out trying to calm the room. “Let us remain civil!”

“She told me to my face I had bought my title,” said Sinsin.

“Well, when you foreclosed on Chin’s school and then just took his place…” Wang interjected.

“How dare you! It was a legal and legitimate transfer of ownership.”

The two men lunged at each other and had to be restrained. All of his masters were shaking their fists, loudly making their cases for why their particular discipline was necessary in the war against the Katuia Hordes.

“What if Jian had to fight mounted cavalry? My family’s style specialises in spear. The hordes’ cavalry number greater than the stars.”

“What if he faces archers? I teach my student to catch arrows mid-flight.”

Jian caught himself nodding to every single one. All of his masters were important and filled a specific role in his training. He would not be nearly as accomplished without each of them.

“Don’t you see, emissary,” Faaru exclaimed. “This is exactly why I have gathered such a diverse group of masters from all corners of the land. This is so our young Prophesied Hero is prepared for all eventualities.”

Taishi threw her peach pit over her shoulder and wiped her hands on her peasant robes. She held up a hand as if expecting that to quiet the masters. When no one obeyed, she barked a command that rumbled like thunder through the room. “Silence!”

The sheer force of this woman’s presence made the hair on the back of Jian’s neck stand as her word lingered in the air. She fixed him with a steely look. To his credit, this time he kept his face levelled, although his entire body clenched. She spoke again, in a crisp, commanding voice. “Show me a fist, boy.”

How dare she? No one called him a boy. Didn’t she know who he was? He swallowed the words. Instead, he did as he was told and raised an open hand, then curled his fingers into his palm. This was obviously a trick question. Jian spoke confidently. “There are several types of fists based on family style.” He made a fist and bent his wrist. “There’s the rolling fist favoured by the Wang style.” Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Wang nodding approvingly for being named first. Jian curled his knuckles next in a slant. “This is the Jang cutting punch.” He extended the knuckle of his forefinger. “Hili ape fist.” Knuckles up. “Pai knife punch.” Flat palm. “Sinsin family super chop punch.”

Wang snorted. “That’s not even a fist.”

The two masters went at it again.

Jian’s cheeks burned. This sort of quarrelling happened often, but usually behind closed doors. Both men were like uncles to him. He pushed on and curled his fingers into claws. “The Luda eagle claw—”

Taishi held up a hand. “That’s enough. Show me your guard.”

Jian obliged. This time, he started with Master Ningzhu’s since he hadn’t gotten the chance to demonstrate the Ning straight-arm punch technique. He crossed his wrists. “This is the Ning family holy cross. This is the single Jang side guard. This is the Sun hacking block—”

Taishi reached out and slapped Jian. The blow wasn’t fast or particularly hard. Jian saw her hand moving toward his face slowly and was momentarily confused. He had plenty of time to block, duck, or counter it. At the very least steel himself for the hit. Instead, Jian just watched as her palm connected with his cheek. His head snapped to the side and he tumbled to the ground. Fortunately, the rug was thick.

A collective gasp filled the room.

“All these blocking techniques for what?” Taishi shook her head. “It took the unity of all the believers of the Tiandi Prophecy to find this boy. Every child in fifteen generations brought forth to the Tiandi monks for testing. Hundreds of the loyal traveling hundreds of miles for nearly a hundred years. Emperor Xuanshing, may his greatness everlast, made it his life’s mission to find the Hero of Prophecy. When he passed, the five states of Zhuun honoured him by burying their conflict and offered his home to train and raise the saviour. Each state tithed a tenth of their soldiers and resources as tribute to defend the prophecy.” Then Taishi pointed at Jian. “And this is what you’ve done with him?”

“Hey!” The protest involuntarily shot out of Jian’s lips. He could take only so much. He burned inside.

Taishi did not appear to hear his outburst. “Instead of preparing him, teaching him the ways of the masters or war arts, each of you has tried to put your own imprint on him, to possess him and call him your own. Instead of serving the people, you sought glory, not only at the expense of the boy, but at the expense of all Zhuun.”

The looks on his masters’ faces were mixed. Some were angry, some ashamed. All looked uncomfortable. Jian was having trouble standing still. No one had ever spoken about him like this. No one would dare! It angered him even more to hear her disparage his masters. They weren’t perfect, yes, but they were his.

The masters weren’t the only ones facing Taishi’s wrath. She turned on Faaru next. “And you, Peachlord, where are the boy’s other instructors?”

Faaru stuttered. “W-What?”

“You brought him eight supposed war arts masters, but where are his other teachers? Who is teaching him strategy, tactics, and diplomacy? Who is teaching him calligraphy? Can he even read? Can that soft melon of his do even basic dog-piss math?”

Palacelord Faaru’s face broke out in fat beads of sweat, and he looked unsteady on his feet. “His masters provide all the instruction he needs. I assure you he will be ready when the time comes.”

“I can too read…” Jian sputtered. The words died in his throat when Taishi turned toward him. Her attention was terrible. “…Well, sort of,” he finished in a much smaller voice.

“He can too read, sort of,” she mimicked. “I was informed before I was dragged all the way across the Jagged Peak Mountains that I was going to witness legendary greatness. That this Hero of Prophecy, Champion of the Five Under Heaven, was a once-in-a-lifetime sight. So far, all I’ve seen is a bunch of wounded throwaway soldiers and eight fools teaching an arrogant and spoiled boy to fight like a fool.”

Jian finally found his voice. “You cannot talk to me like this!”

She ignored him. “Palacelord Faaru, I have decided. I am taking over the boy’s training. From this point on, he will become my responsibility. I just hope it’s not too late.”

Sinsin raised an arm as if a schoolboy asking a question. “What about us?”

She snapped, “You’re all dismissed. I want every one of you gone from the palace before the next King’s dawn.”

The fire burning inside Jian finally exploded. If his masters were too honourable and respectful to defend themselves, then he, their disciple, would stand for them. Rage inflamed his courage. “It is you who will leave at once, woman. You are only an emissary sent by the Duke of Shulan. You think you can tell us what to do because you cheated in the pit. Well, there is no cheating in real life.” Taishi looked as if she were sucking on a sour plum. For some reason, Jian had expected a different reaction. He continued. “I am the Prophesied Hero of Zhuun. My masters stay. I command it. They have made me the warrior I am. I am ready to fight the hordes’ Khan now if needed. I bet I can easily beat him even now.”

Taishi studied him intently as he puffed his chest. This time, he did not wilt under her intense gaze. What was the worst she could do? Strike him dead? Slap him again? He dared her to try. To the Zhuun, he was practically a god.

“Oh, are you, boy?” To his great discomfort, Taishi smiled. “What do you know about this Khan?”

Jian raised his chin. “He is a beast: half man, half horse. He is strong as a mountain but dumb as the boulders. He rules over the savage hordes through fear and plunder. I will put him down like any rabid animal.”

This time Taishi did break into a chuckle. For some reason, the happier she looked, the more frightening she appeared. “Is that what these fools who have never sniffed a battlefield tell you about him? Well, I’ve stood on the opposite side of the field against the Khan. My blade has kissed his. He is a savage, but not in the way you think.” She almost sounded enchanted. “Taller than any man has a right to be. Hair that flows on the currents of the Grass Sea, a voice that rumbles the earth. He is a force of nature on the battlefield. Feet like a dancer, hands like a painter, and the mouth of a poet.” She paused. “Somewhat. His prose could use a little refinement.”

“What?” Jian became confused. “Whose side are you supposed to be on?”

She shrugged. “You’ll see if you are ever unfortunate enough to stand in his way. You had better hope it is still many years from now, boy, because the Eternal Khan is an artist with death, a god of war, the right hand of violence. He kills creatively, slaughtering by the dozens, by the hundreds, for sport.” She stepped closer. Her breath smelled like peaches, with hints of opium and rot.

“In battle, the Khan is a whirlwind, equal parts savagery, skill, and masterful tactics. He has the strength of a giant and the speed of a serpent. He rides an elephant into battle and decimates entire squads with one charge. In the Battle of Northern Pengnin, he and just fifty of his riders outmanoeuvred and decimated six hundred soldiers, killing two master generals. Then they razed a town of three thousand. Including the children.”

Just when Jian had found the courage to stand up to Taishi, something about her voice pierced his mind and broke his will. Her words, infused with the power of her jing, evoked terrible images. A giant silhouette stepped out from within the tall lilting blades of a grass forest and stalked toward him with lightning and thunder announcing his approach. The dark figure had long fangs and sharp claws and possibly four arms, one wielding a spear as tall as a house. The tip of that phantom spear touched his chest, slicing through his skin like rice paper. Jian tried to scream, but only a pained gasp escaped his lips.

The spear went in deeper, cutting bone and sinew, and then plunged through his back. Terror seized his chest. His stomach clenched. He tried to pull away again, but a vice-like grip held him.

The room swayed, and he focused to see Taishi’s weathered face close to his, her rough, scarred hand wrapped around his wrists like a claw. “After he flays and kills you, he’ll tear your arms from your body to pick his teeth. He’ll use your severed head as a goblet, and wear your skin as a cloak. That is the Eternal Khan that you are fated to fight. And you say you’re ready to face him on the field?”

When Jian opened his mouth, no words came. Phantom pain and stark terror seized his breath. Then, Wen Jian, the Prophesied Hero of the Zhuun, Champion of the Five Under Heaven, saviour of the Zhuun people, destined to lead the Enlightened States over the savage Khanate Hordes of Katuia, threw up peach juice all over Ling Taishi’s feet, and fainted.

CHAPTER THREE

POETRY IN MOTION

Jalua stared at the tall blade of grass swaying in the breeze. He shoved it aside, only to have it rebound and shove him back. A hiss erupted from his throat as he hacked at the giant weed with his axe until the stem lay bent in a dozen places. Then, slowly, the accursed weed stood itself back up, with only a few tooth marks from his axe betraying the violence Jalua had inflicted on it. He gave up and ducked his head under the tall blade of grass bowing over the narrow, winding path. The stupid grass had won again, as it had the other hundred times his squad had crossed this field.

Jalua hated the Grass Sea. It was an endless plain of indestructible plants, each as tall as a tree. The grasses here were impossible to kill: difficult to cut, tough to flatten, and resilient even against fire. And it wasn’t for want for trying: In the early days of the war, the Enlightened States had uprooted and burned the grasses and even salted the earth. But the overgrown green blades, the true lords of these wild and resilient lands, always came back.

Unfortunately, the Grass Sea was also home to the Katuia Hordes. These savages would swarm out from the Grass Sea and raid the Zhuun’s rich farmlands, then scurry back into the tall weeds before the Enlightened States’ armies could pursue. Now it was up to Jalua’s patrol, and hundreds of others like it, to give the army advance warning of horde incursions.

Jalua craned his neck back and scanned the few bits of blue that broke past the green spears. He finally found a sliver of the King just to his left. They were still heading in the right direction. It was easy to get twisted around in this jungle. More important, they were almost at the halfway mark, which meant it was time for the patrol to begin working their way back to friendly territory.

The Grass Sea made Jalua feel like a tiny bug, and that was unnerving. From the day he had slipped out of his mam’s womb, Jalua had been a big boy, with a big mouth, a big appetite, and a big voice. He was always a head taller than the other children—and a head wider and several heads meaner. When he was still crawling, he would eat the dog’s food after finishing his own. When the dog snapped at him, he bit it. When he was a boy, he would take the other children’s lunches. When they complained, he would bite them as well. When Jalua was a grown man and past his biting phase, he stole food from the local shops. He had then tried to beat up the town’s entire magistrate watch, but he hadn’t been quite big enough for that.

Instead of losing his hands—the penalty for theft—Jalua joined the army, which ended up being the best decision he had ever made. The army loved big, strong men with big, loud mouths. His sergeant had looked him up and down like a slab of meat and promoted him to corporal on the spot. Being big was a great talent, he had declared. Size couldn’t be taught. It could only be nurtured, so the army fed him plenty. From that point, Jalua had quickly risen in the ranks. Being a leader was easy. He just had to yell and push people around, things he had done well all his life. Within a season of bellowing and threatening, Jalua was promoted to unit commander. And he still got to eat as much as he liked.

The Grass Sea was the only place that ever made him feel small, like one of the insects that crawled through the weeds of his family’s garden, right before he’d bring his meaty foot down upon it for a satisfying squish. And if he were a bug, that meant there was a stomping boot in his future.

Just as his imagination was about to get the better of him, some plants to the east rustled. He held up a fist. The rest of his squad stopped along the winding path and retreated behind cover among the stalks. One of his men yelped as he fell into an innocent-looking puddle that turned out to be neck-deep. The sea was sneaky like that.

“What is it, Captain?” asked Manji, the newest recruit in the unit. Jalua liked to keep the fresh meat close to him at all times and send them out on the most dangerous assignments. It helped him cut down on replacing his veterans and remembering names.

Jalua slid his axe out of its holster and pointed toward the source of the noise. “Something in the weeds. Check it out.”

“Why me?”

Jalua shook his axe threateningly. “Because I’m a lot worse than what’s in there.”

Manji, his face already a mess of blue and purple from having once been on the receiving end of Jalua’s wrath, gulped and rose from his hiding place. He managed a step forward before Jalua smacked him on the side of the head. “Your spear, fool. Lose another and I’ll attach it to your asshole.”

The boy, barely sixteen, scampered back to pick it up and then began to pick his way toward the noise. He squeezed between several clusters of grass, looked back once apprehensively, and was then swallowed up by the tangled foliage.

Jalua signalled for the rest of the squad to stay behind cover. The wind had picked up overhead, causing the grasses to rustle as the blades brushed against one another. Somewhere just in the darkness beyond, cicadas and birds joined the chorus. A pack of coyotes laughed, probably celebrating a kill. Some of the men became restless as vertigo took hold of them, which was common. Everything in here was always moving in one direction or another. The only way to stay sane was if you moved with the land.

Jalua flinched when a spider the size of his hand lowered itself to a large leaf and crawled directly in front of him. It chittered softly as it sized him up. “Hey there, you ugly little thing,” he cooed, raising his free hand next to it. The spider stared at him for a few seconds, as if considering his offer, and then its eight furry legs moved one by one onto his fingers before coming to a rest on the back of his hand.

He raised his arm so the spider was eye level. “Thought you’d get the jump on me, eh? Wanted a bite of juicy Jalua, eh?” Then he smashed the flat of his axe onto the spider. He grinned as fragments of legs and guts and green goo dripped down his forearm. “Nasty bug. I hate this place,” he muttered. “Where in the ten depths of hell did that lazy Manji go? I swear, if I have to send someone after him, I’m going to cleave him in two.”

His answer came a moment later in the form of a high-pitched shriek from the darkness. Manji burst out of the thickets, his spindly legs pedalling as hard as they could in the soft mud. He looked shaken, his face white and his eyes bulging like the twin moons. His hands were up in the air as if he were looking for someone to whom to surrender.