Page 57

The Prisoner

This time, I do not stop to rest at the cabin. Instead, I hurry onward, fresh determination singing through my veins, the memory of Chara and Chryse’s hands in mine lessening the acute loneliness and desperation I so often feel in this mindscape. Their key, with a small charm shaped like an ornate mirror, gives me strength as it clicks against the other three. I’ve collected four out of the seven. Only three more levels await me.

There is still no sign of Yego, yet I try not to let it bother me. Perhaps he is sleeping? Surely Dalgyal Gwisin also need their rest.

Unhindered by any brawling with Yego, it does not take as long as I’d expected for me to emerge on the next level. And, somehow, I am not surprised when I see Sang and Yoonho waiting for me before the crackling fire in the palace’s sitting room. This place…it is where Yoonho told me of his wish for me to lead the Talons.

“L,” Sang greets softly, standing from one of the worn settees, smiling slightly. Yoonho rises with him, and he is just as I remembered him—stern-faced, with streaks of gray in his hair but a gentleness in his expression that he reserved only for the Talons.

Yoonho. I sob and lurch in his direction. Yoonho embraces me, hugging me tightly before stepping away. Just as Chara and Chryse were, I know—deep within me—that somehow, the spirits of the Talons are here. In my mind.

“Lina,” Yoonho says gruffly. “Sit down.”

I take a seat next to Sang on the settee. Sang wraps his arm around me for a moment, and I try to smile with wobbling lips. Yet I fail.

I failed you , I tell Yoonho, trembling with shame and guilt as I recall one of his last requests to me. To lead, should he die. Yet even if the others had survived Konrarnd Kalmin’s attack, I would have been a poor choice. Look at me. I’m so sorry. I was never fit to lead the Talons, not when I couldn’t differentiate a trap from a true target—

“That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” Yoonho smiles, and as I flinch, he holds up a finger. “Not like that. I only meant that we’re here because, as you just said, you believe that this one mistake defines you and your capability to lead.”

I stare at him. I am no leader. I am—I’m trying to prevent the Three Kingdoms from being ruled by me. Why in the gods’ names is this level necessary? Why does my mind think I must confront this subject?

“But that’s not you, is it?” Leaning forward, Yoonho looks intently at me. “When I look at you , Lina, I see a great ruler. Ever since you came to me as a child, I saw that potential. Somehow, in some way, it is in your future. Your future, Lina. And something tells me that it’s not in the way we expected.”

No , I protest, shaking my head. What he says…it can’t be possible. But Yoonho raises a finger again. He always did hate to be interrupted.

“What makes a good ruler, Lina?”

I don’t understand…

“There are three truths you must search for within yourself and find. We’ve hidden these truths within this palace. Find them, and decipher their meaning. Only then will you be ready to move on once more.”

Three truths? I repeat nervously. The way he’s talking about them…they sound like physical objects. Symbols, perhaps?

Sang nudges me with his shoulder. “You can do this, L,” he whispers. “But you have to start soon. The Prophecy is nearing Habaek’s River.”

No. No . His words send a jolt of horror through me. If the Prophecy takes Bonseyo before I can reclaim my body and put a stop to this, the Three Kingdoms will be subject to a reign of horror, of wicked Imugi taking to the skies as dragons.

Quickly, I rise to my feet and begin the hunt. I’m not sure what a “truth” looks like—only that I’ll know one when I see it.

The palace on the edge of Fishtown is as it was before it fell into Kalmin’s hands. It is exactly how I remember it, which I suppose makes sense—I’ve chosen to recall this palace as it was when it was our home—suspending it in a moment in time, like a dragonfly in amber. Glossy floors and walls hanging with watercolor illustrations, windows spilling sunlight below ornate ceilings painted with intricate dancheong designs. The patterns of deep red, rich green, warm yellow, night black, and deep blues are a sea of vibrancy above me as I move swiftly beneath their waves.

Through the palace I go, darting down the corridors lined with scarlet columns, ducking into rooms along the way. In the dining room, I lift the silken cushions up from the floor, checking beneath them for…for truth? I am unsure what these truths will look like, but I get the sense that I will know one when I see it. The underneath of the silken cushions yields nothing, and I huff in frustration, checking the teapot on the low table before them. It’s a delicate, porcelain thing—it was Yoonho’s mother’s teapot, and he was always adamant that nobody touched it but him, lest they break it. When tea was served in this pot, Yoonho always poured it for us.

I touch it now, though, lifting the top off hesitantly and peering inside, expecting to see tea, or nothing at all. Yet something is in there, a small, black box. Heart pounding, I scoop it out of the pot and turn it around in my fingers. It is nothing extraordinary, just small and square. I pry it open with my fingers—and nearly drop it.

The moment I open it, sound emerges from the box. Murmurs . Fighting back a yelp, I slam it shut, and the sound abruptly stops. Are there…are there people in this box? Steadying myself, I open it once more. The sounds once again rise into the air, men and women speaking, talking in low, hushed tones. Yet the box is empty. It holds nothing but voices.

This is one of the truths. I know it is, yet I am utterly bewildered by what it might mean. Shutting it once more, I slip the box into the pocket of my tattered pants and resume my hunt.

It is in my old bedroom, underneath the large bed piled with all my old, favorite quilts, that I find another truth. A small threadbare pouch filled with barley, where it should not be. Frowning, I weigh it in my hand, staring down at the pale grain, pinching some in my fingers and letting it run back into the small bag.

A box of voices, and a pouch filled with barley.

What sort of riddle is this? I’ve no idea what either truth symbolizes, and I puzzle over it for so long as I continue my hunt that my head begins to swim.

There is only one more truth left, and it takes the longest to find. It is not in the twins’ bedroom, nor in the kitchen, even as I open every cupboard and rummage through every jar, box, and bottle scattered within. Frustrated, I sweep through Yoonho’s room, which is bare save for the continental maps he used to collect, and practically rampage through the abandoned weapons forge. The truth is not in the washing rooms, nor the throne room which was rarely used, save for when we hosted our extravagant parties. My throat tightens as I pass by the spot where Gwan Doyun…

C R A C K.

Shaking and ill, I lean against the wall until I am ready to continue my search for the final truth. I have not yet checked Sang’s room, and I slip inside with little hope. I pull books and scrolls down from the spymaster’s shelf, checking each page for something hidden within, shaking them out in hopes that another strange object will drop to the floor. Yet none of the dozens of papers harbor any truth, and I seethe in growing annoyance, flopping onto the bed of silken sheets where Sang once held me as his own.

It is then that I hear it. A steady thump, thump, thump emerging from…from beneath the floorboards? Frowning in alarm, I slip off the bed, tiptoeing around the room until I am certain I stand over whatever is slamming against the wood.

What in the gods’ names?

I kneel down and hesitantly dig my fingers into the wood. The board is loose, no doubt from whatever is thumping on it beneath. Before I can lose my nerve, I shove the floorboard aside…

And lurch backward as my eyes meet a beating, bloody heart.

…

A box of voices. A pouch of barley. A red, glistening heart.

I stare down at all three of the truths, arranged on the table before the fireplace, as Yoonho and Sang patiently wait for my answer.

What makes a good leader? Thinking hard, I lift the edges of the box up, listening to the murmurs within. I close my eyes, listening to unintelligible conversations, the rising and falling of tenors. A box of voices . A voice box . A voice box .

My face twists into a frown, and my eyes snap open to glare at Yoonho. An ugly emotion twists in my chest. Is this his not-so-subtle way of telling me to use my voice? The thought still frightens me, and I—I do not yet feel capable of it. Anger boils in me, anger that he would expect so much of me, so soon. Yet Yoonho stares back at me steadily, calmly, before gesturing to my hands. As if to say that there is not only one way to speak. Of course. He was, after all, the one who taught me the Quiet Language.

Ah. So the voices are…metaphorical, somehow? I stare at the box for a moment longer before the answer comes to me.

A leader must speak up for their people , I sign slowly. Advocate for them.

There’s a hint of a smile on Yoonho’s face as I move to the barley pouch, dipping my finger in the grain, remembering the barley farm on which I was raised. The way I would help my eomma and appa crop the grain come Harvest Day, careful not to cut myself as I used a scythe, just like them. This truth is clear. A leader must remember where they come from.

“Good,” Yoonho praises. “And the final truth?”

I stare at the pulsating heart, feeling slightly nauseated. It was slick and warm in my hands when I carried it back here from Sang’s bedroom. It is pulsing frantically, as if experiencing some high emotion. As if it is frightened or angry.

Passionate.

A leader must care for their people. Deeply.

There is a moment of silence before Yoonho’s eyes crinkle at the corners, in the way they so often did when he was proud of me. He stands from his armchair and crosses toward me, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Well done,” he says, and it is only because of how well I know him that I can see the glimmer of intense emotion behind his eyes and the lined planes of his face.

Sang stands, too, and smiles at me. “Remember these,” he whispers as the wall with the fireplace shifts, disappearing before being replaced by another flight of stairs. “Don’t forget them.” The three truths, on the table, begin to shift. To melt and mold, until they are miniature versions of themselves, cast in solid gold. Little charms, connected to a gilded key. It joins the others on the chain around my neck, glittering.

I won’t. I won’t forget.

Yoonho nods at me, just once—but that nod contains more words than a speech ever could. When he speaks again, his voice is thick. “With these three truths, you have all you need and more. There’s so much awaiting you.”

I swallow hard. Still, this makes little sense to me. I’ve no desire to rule—it’s what sets me apart from the Prophecy.

“Take the stairs,” Yoonho says, stepping aside. “You’re not so far away now.”

“Go,” Sang urges gently. “Go, and show the world what you can be.”

I’ve no idea what he means, what they see in my future, but I let them guide me to the stairs, let them smile as I take the first step.