Page 2

CHAPTER

Two

T HE JOURNEY WOULD take well over an hour, the sun rising ahead of them as they sailed east. They were travelling with the day servants on a leaking heap that moaned and shuddered as it rode the waves. When visitors arrived in the capital they would rush to take in this celebrated view: the sea stretching off to the horizon, the imperial island a tantalising glimmer in the distance. Last stop before the end of the world.

All citizens of Armas felt a tug of connection to the island. Their city had been designed with the sole purpose of serving the court. Yana’s relationship was more complicated. Her father may have died on the island, but she and Ruko were born there. Yasila had given birth to the twins in the imperial palace, in the middle of the Festival Trials. Auspicious , people said, at the time. Then later: Cursed . This was the first time Yana had returned to her birthplace. As the boat drew slowly nearer, she felt a lift of anticipation, laced with dread.

The island had no name, and it never would. Yana’s ancestor, Empress Yasthala, had moved her court there after the War of the Raven’s Dream. A new beginning, with a new capital and a new calendar. In the autumn of 11 N . C . , Yasthala’s ministers had gathered before the white marble throne, where she sat beneath the great octagonal window. On bended knee, they’d begged leave to name the island in her honour. And in her memory , they thought, but did not say. For the empress was fading, everyone saw it.

Yasthala, dressed in her indigo robes and amethyst crown, had lowered her head. In the garden beyond the window, burnt orange leaves fluttered from the branches, and the sky was grey. “What poisoned deeds are born from love,” she’d said, in a weary voice. “This island is not mine. To stamp my name upon it would be a betrayal of everything I have fought for. This island belongs to no one, and to everyone. Name it not.”

Yana clung to the slatted bench, gritting her teeth as the boat pitched and rolled, and her stomach pitched and rolled with it. Her neighbour—a bald-headed black man—watched her from the corner of his eyes as he smoked his roll-up. He was wearing short-sleeved overalls and a pair of battered leather boots, and had the solid, indomitable physique of a working man in his prime. He also smelled faintly of fish, which wasn’t helping. “Deep breaths,” he said. “Eyes on the horizon.”

Yana nodded, and promptly threw up over the side.

The man stubbed out his roll-up. “Ginger pastilles,” he called out to the other passengers. They seemed to know each other, probably took the same boat out every day. “Anyone?”

A tin was found, and passed up through the boat to her neighbour. Everyone seemed to like him. Not in the way people liked Ruko, or had liked her father—moths to a flame. He just felt comfortable to be around, the way some people do.

He handed the tin to Yana. While she sucked on a pastille, he told her about the fourth palace, where he worked. An Oxman, then. If he was lucky, he said, he would finish his fucking paperwork over breakfast, then he’d get out into the orchards and, he added vaguely, “see how that’s going.” The island, he explained, was designed to be self-sufficient in times of siege; the farm attached to the Ox palace could support the court for years if necessary. This wasn’t news, everyone knew about the imperial island and how it worked, but he carried on talking, in his laid-back, Southern Heartlands drawl, and after a while Yana felt much better, which had been the whole point.

The island was close now; she could see black and white terns and guillemots nestled among its steep cliffs, waves rinsing the rocks below. Above the cliffs sat the high perimeter walls, cornered with watchtowers. “A thousand years old, those walls,” the Oxman said. “They teach you that in school?”

Yana let the last of the ginger pastille dissolve before answering. “Pirate raid, 517. Took forty years to build.”

“You know your history.” The Oxman sounded impressed. “Raven?”

Yana scrunched her face. Now she was sixteen, she was free to head over to the temple and affiliate with whichever Guardian she preferred. Definitely not the Raven, despite the ancestral connection. Ravens were lawyers, scholars, teachers, administrators. Desks, ink, bookshelves. No thanks. 1 “Too much fucking paperwork,” she said, and her new friend grinned to have his words thrown back at him.

She stole a glance at Yasila, sitting further down the boat with Ruko. “My mother’s cross with me.”

The Oxman lifted his eyebrows. “Oh, she is? For throwing up?” He laughed at the idea.

“For needing help.”

“Ah.”

A sleek grey seal swam up alongside the boat, huffing through its wide nostrils. The Oxman pulled a large, plump fish from his overalls. The seal leapt up on its tail, caught the fish neatly in its mouth and flopped back into the sea, spraying Yana with water. She laughed and wiped her face.

The Oxman laughed with her. “You know, it’s the little things.”

“Life is short, so enjoy it.”

He lowered his head, still smiling. But his eyes were serious. “Exactly.”

“Yanara.” Her mother’s voice floated down the boat. “Come and sit with your brother.”

Before the island, one last stop—a sharp, treacherous rock, at the top of which lay a squat garrison, built of dark grey brick. Here the Valits would be processed before walking across the Mirror Bridge to the ancient Guardian Gate. This dramatic approach to the island was a sign that their visit was of high significance to the emperor. Perhaps they would be honoured. Perhaps they would be punished. The uncertainty was deliberate.

Yana watched the day boat set off again, taking the friendly Oxman with it. She felt a pang of loss. She hadn’t even caught his name.

Sergeant Worthy ushered her on to a small wooden platform with roped sides. There was only room for three at a time—he would have to return for her mother and Ruko. He turned his back and cranked the winch. The pulley juddered into life, drawing them slowly up the rock—an ugly, jagged thing, like a rotten tooth. Eyart’s Doom, they called it. Empress Yasthala had signed the truce up there with the Six Families, at the end of the war. “Our trials are over,” her husband had declared, his hand upon her shoulder. “At last we shall know peace.” Never say this. Three days later Eyart was dead.

Yana looked down. Ruko and Yasila were twenty feet below and receding. Beyond them, the restless sea churned against the rocks. Ruko’s brows were drawn into a frown. She couldn’t tell from this distance if he was worried for her, or annoyed he was going second. Yana was the firstborn. Their father used to tease them about it. “ Eight , Ruko!” he’d laugh, whenever Yana beat her brother at something. “She’s elbowed you out the way again.” Family jokes. Powerful things.

The platform creaked its way up the side of the rock, disturbing the terns that lifted and wheeled about in protest. A hot summer breeze blew Yana’s hair across her face. She pushed it back. She could see the Mirror Bridge from here. She tried not to think of those who had walked it before her—how many of them had come to a bad end. Instead she studied Sergeant Worthy’s back, the smooth way he worked the winch. He must know why they were summoned, he must know if she and her brother were in danger.

“Is there anything you can tell me?” she asked.

He didn’t answer.

She tried again. “It’s just you and me up here.”

He glanced back at her. Bright hazel eyes, framed with thick black lashes. “When you come before the emperor, I’ll be watching you. My advice?” He returned to the winch. “Don’t lie . ”

The Mirror Bridge stretched across the sea from the garrison to the palace island. Constructed from huge iron segments bolted together, it was painted gold, like something from a folk tale. The floor gave the bridge its name—tiles of mirrored glass, dazzlingly bright in the morning sun. Some said a Dragonspell kept it in pristine condition. The team of servants who maintained it knew better.

Yana took two steps, and slipped. For a half-second she felt the terror of falling, before her fingers found the railing. And there on the floor she saw herself, trapped in a dozen mirrored pieces. Fear and relief. From this height, you’d fall so fast the sea might as well be rock. Here was the hidden lesson of the bridge. Watch your footing. Watch yourself. The emperor awaits. She took off her borrowed felt slippers and walked the rest of the way barefoot.

At the mid point, she stopped to read a small bronze plaque fixed to the railing. Shimmer Arbell had jumped to her death here, just over a year ago. Right in front of the emperor. The greatest artist of the age, gone at thirty-nine.

The plaque said: Her light still shines.

“Keep moving,” Sergeant Worthy called from the back.

The Guardian Gate loomed up before her—a pair of giant, painted wooden doors, almost as tall as the perimeter wall. Yasthala had shipped the Gate from the old court at Samra. It was ancient even by Samran standards—but its message remained as fresh as the day it was first painted. Fierce icons of the Eight glared out towards the mainland, eyes rimmed white in the old style, blood streaming from tooth and claw. These were not the Eight of the Kind Returns, cheerful and benevolent. These were the Eight that would come at the end of the world, to judge and to destroy.

Yana stepped off the bridge, still barefoot. Out of habit, she looked for the Monkey’s image on the Gate. The Guardians were paired in the traditional way, side by side, one on each door:

Yana had always felt a close connection to the Monkey, Guardian of the Arts, of Festivals and Games. In fact, she had planned to visit the temple this morning to affiliate. The Sixth Guardian was usually portrayed as the most approachable of the Eight, friendly and helpful. Staring up at the ferocious image on the door, she was reminded of something her father had taught her. “The Monkey can be playful, but it is still a creature of the wild. Today, it dances at your side. Tomorrow it may jump on your back, and sink its teeth in your throat. Affiliate as you please, when the time comes. But choose with your eyes wide open. Every Guardian has its shadow side.”

“Yana!” A strangled voice to her right.

She turned in surprise. It was her friend from the boat, panting heavily as he rubbed the sweat from his face and scalp. He must have climbed the steps carved into the island’s cliff face—an almost vertical ascent. There were several routes on to the island. Why the Eight would he stagger up this way?

He put his hands on his knees, still panting. “Damn . Time was… I could run up… those steps… four at a time. And sing you a song at the end. Badly,” he conceded. “Very badly. But I could sing it.”

“What’s wrong?” Yana asked.

“The pastilles,” he gasped, beckoning for her to hand them over.

Yana’s face fell. “The Hounds confiscated them. I’m so sorry. I’ll find a way to pay you back if…”

The Oxman laughed himself into a coughing fit.

“Oh. You’re joking.”

He nodded, still coughing.

Yana glanced back towards the bridge. Ruko had almost made it across, Yasila and Sergeant Worthy not far behind.

The Oxman was patting his overall pockets. He dug out a brooch, shaped like an ox-head. The skull was carved from white jade, the wide horns tipped with bronze. He pinned it to his chest.

The guards at the Gate immediately stood to attention, hands punched to their hearts in the Hound salute.

Yana’s mouth dropped. Not a brooch, but a badge of High Office.

Fenn Fedala. It had to be. The emperor’s High Engineer. The man who kept the empire running.

He grinned, enjoying her reaction. “They salute the office, not the person,” he said, signalling to the Hounds to stand down. “I’ve always admired that. It’s what you do that matters, not who you are.”

Yana slapped her hands to her cheeks. “I threw up in front of Fenn Fedala .”

“And I shall never forget it,” Fenn said, solemnly.

Sergeant Worthy approached them, then thought better of it. Fenn outranked him by several miles. He called to the Hounds to open the Gate.

Fenn touched Yana’s arm. “Came to wish you good luck. May the Ox clear the road ahead for you.”

“And remain Hidden,” she answered in a wavering voice, touched by the blessing, and the effort he’d made. Spite, she could handle. Kindness always knocked her sideways.

The Guardian Gate cracked open. Over Fenn’s shoulder, Yana saw a wide stone path, cutting through sloping lawns studded with broad oak trees. A pair of gardeners were busy clipping the grass, wide straw hats shading their brows.

“Looks idyllic, doesn’t it?” he said.

His voice was mild, but Yana heard the warning. Looks idyllic.

Very, very softly he added, “So… I’ll be in the orchards, like I said.”

And again, Yana heard the part he left out. Come find me, if you need me.

When he saw that she understood his meaning, he squeezed her shoulder, and walked on through the Gate.

Sergeant Worthy had no intention of keeping the emperor waiting. Leading the way, he kept a fast, striding pace over the undulating common ground. Yana, back in her borrowed felt slippers, struggled to keep up. One of the Hounds jabbed her in the back with his baton. “Stop that,” Worthy said, without turning round. Which was eerie—exactly how good was his peripheral vision?—but also gave Yana hope. Were they not to be harmed? Were they guests, not prisoners?

They were halfway up the stone path when Yana spotted three figures at the top of the lawn bank. Courtiers, she guessed from their fine-tailored tunics and sashes. They stood for a moment with their hands draped on each other’s shoulders, watching the new arrivals. And then, to Yana’s astonishment, they dropped to the grass and rolled down the slope together, head over heels, tumbling at increasing speed until they landed at the bottom in a tangle, laughing.

“Foxes,” Worthy explained in a tight voice. He tilted his chin up ahead to the left. “The first palace is over that way.”

“But why did they—”

“Because they’re twats,” the Hound behind her muttered.

Foxes and Hounds. Rarely friends.

At the top of the rise, far to the east, they saw their ultimate destination: the eighth palace. The imperial palace. The Palace of the Awakening Dragon. A noble edifice of pale gold limestone, capped with sea-green slate, it stood at the island’s highest point, and all things bowed before it. Attached to the northern wing lay the inner sanctum—an octagonal building of dazzling white marble. The throne room lay nestled somewhere within, a jewel curled loosely inside a dragon’s claws.

In front of the palace lay the Grand Canal—a glittering waterway a quarter-mile wide and two and a half miles long, filled with brightly coloured pleasure boats and banqueting platforms. At the centre of the canal, lined up in perfect symmetry with the Dragon palace, sat the Imperial Temple, white and gold and gleaming on its own small island. Three white marble bridges arced from bank to bank, their sides cascading with roses of cream and apricot. Weeping willows trailed their leaves gracefully, touching their own reflection on the canal’s mirrored surface.

“Beautiful,” Ruko said, then shook his head. It was so much more than that. A dream. A wonderful, dangerous dream.

Yana was using this moment for a more practical purpose—to catch her breath. The climb had given her a stitch. She clutched her side, wincing at the sharp, stabbing pain.

Worthy noticed it. He noticed everything. “We’ll take a boat from here,” he told his squad, and dismissed them. The canal was the most direct route to the imperial palace—and the quickest, if you weren’t prepared to jog.

When they reached the water’s edge, he waved down a boatwoman. “Can you manage four of us to the eighth?” he asked. She gave him a look. Of course she could. The cheek. They clambered aboard and she rowed off, biceps bulging, oars slicing the water with a smooth, practised precision.

As they glided along, Yana caught glimpses of the island’s seven satellite palaces, each set within its own private land. The black larch cladding of the Raven palace. The Bear palace, a fortress with thick stone walls, red pennants rising over dense pine forest. The Tiger palace, with its white marble columns and obelisks, its elegant glass pavilions and botanical gardens. “Samra,” Ruko whispered in her ear, and he was right, it did look like the old capital, in the days before its decline.

If you had asked Yana—Have you seen this before?—she would have said no. But that was not strictly true. The day the twins were born, their father had carried them proudly down the Grand Canal, and the people on the banks had cheered and waved, because they thought Andren was certain to win the Festival, and become their next emperor. They were mistaken.

Today, the courtiers did not cheer. They stared. Taking breakfast under a shaded veranda; strolling arm in arm across an arched bridge. Sprawled on the canal bank with friends. They stared and whispered. Stared and looked away. Many wore coloured sashes around their waists, showing their Guardian affiliation. Some had wrapped their hair in scarves—yellow for the Monkey, green for the Tiger. A group of brown-sashed Oxes heading for the temple fell into awkward silence as they sailed past. Yana kept her head down, until she felt her mother’s hand at the base of her spine. Not for comfort, but to correct her posture.

When they reached the eastern end of the canal, Sergeant Worthy tipped the boatwoman an extra bronze tile for her efforts. They’d arrived in good time. Crossing the vast, cobbled parade ground, he warned them to stay close, which made Yana feel like a prisoner again.

At the door, Worthy waved his summons at a pair of Hounds and they nodded him through. This was the working end of the palace, the corridors and staircases bustling with staff and servants, black-clad Raven lawyers clutching files, Ox engineers consulting blueprints, a harried minister arguing with her entourage. A series of doors and checks funnelled them towards the inner sanctum. The press of the crowds, the chatter of court business faded away, until they were alone, the four of them.

They stopped at a pair of carved oak doors. Two guards barred the way, red tunics slashed with five black claw marks. They opened the door without a word.

The inner sanctum.

Silence. The deep silence of immeasurable power.

The golden halls gleamed. Tapestries and silk rugs. Incense burning on white marble plinths. Frankincense for long life. Patchouli for serenity.

This is where our father died.

The doors to the throne room opened. They had arrived. Yana reached for Ruko’s hand and they walked in together, side by side.

Footnote

1 . An unforgivably reductive description; we are aggrieved.