Kuni’s brother Kado and his father Féso welcomed him again to their houses, believing that the prodigal son had finally returned.
Naré Garu was so happy that she embraced Jia and wouldn’t let go, soaking the shoulder of Jia’s dress with her tears. “You saved my son!” she said again and again, and Jia blushed and smiled awkwardly.
And so there was a big wedding — paid for by Gilo — that became the talk of Zudi for many days. Although Gilo refused to support the couple in a lavish lifestyle (“Since you picked him, you have to live within the means of his salary”), Jia’s dowry allowed the couple to get a small house, and Kuni no longer had to calculate how long he had before he wore out a friend’s patience and had to find another place to sleep.
He went to work every morning and sat in his office and filled out reports and made his hourly rounds to be sure that the listless men held in prison weren’t up to any mischief while they waited to be sent to labor in the Grand Tunnels or the Mausoleum.
In no time at all, he hated his job — now he really felt he was drifting. He complained to Jia daily.
“Do not fret, my husband,” said Jia. “They also serve who only stand and wait. There is a time for flight, and a time for descent; a time for movement, and a time for rest; a time to do, and a time to prepare.”
“This is why you’re the poet,” said Kuni. “You even make paperwork sound exciting.”
“Here’s what I think: Opportunity comes in many forms. What is luck but being ready with the snare when the rabbit bolts from his hole? You’ve made many friends in Zudi over the years as a ne’er-do-well—”
“Hey, I resent that—”
“I married you, didn’t I?” Jia gave him a light peck on the cheek to placate him. “But the point is, now that you’re a member of Zudi’s officialdom, you have a chance to make different kinds of friends. Trust yourself that this is only temporary. Take advantage of it to spread your circles. I know you like people.”
Kuni took Jia’s advice and made an extra effort to go out with fellow clerks to teahouses after work and to pay visits at the homes of senior officials from time to time. He was humble, respectful, and listened more than he spoke. When he found people he liked, he and Jia would invite them and their families to their little home for deeper conversation.
Soon, Kuni got to know the departments and bureaus of Zudi’s city government as well as he knew its back alleys and busy markets.
“I had thought of them as the dull sort,” said Kuni. “But they’re not so bad once you get to know them. They’re just… different from my old friends.”
“A bird needs both long and short feathers to fly,” said Jia. “You need to learn to work with different kinds of people.”
Kuni nodded, glad of Jia’s wisdom.
It was now late summer, and the air was filled with drifting dandelion seeds. Every day as he came home, Kuni gazed with longing at the tiny feathered seeds carelessly riding the wind, snowy puffs that danced about his nose and eyes.
He imagined their flight. They were so light that a gust of wind could carry one for miles. There was no reason that a seed couldn’t fly all the way from one end of the Big Island to the other. No reason that it couldn’t fly all the way over the sea, to Crescent Island, to Ogé, to Écofi. No reason that it couldn’t tour the peaks of Mount Rapa and Mount Kiji. No reason that it couldn’t taste the mist at the Rufizo Falls. All it needed was a little kindness from nature, and it would travel the world.
He felt, in a way that he could not explain, that he was meant to live more than the life he was living, destined to one day soar high into the air like these dandelion seeds, like the kite rider he had seen long ago.
He was like a seed still tethered to the withered flower, just waiting for the dead air of the late summer evening to break, for the storm to begin.
CHAPTER FIVE. THE DEATH OF THE EMPEROR
ÉCOFI ISLAND: THE TENTH MONTH IN THE TWENTY-THIRD YEAR OF THE REIGN OF ONE BRIGHT HEAVEN.
Emperor Mapidéré had not looked into a mirror for weeks now.
The last time he had dared to look, a pallid, leathery mask had stared back at him. Gone was the handsome, arrogant, fearless man who had made ten thousand wives into widows and forged the crowns of the Seven States into one.
His body had been usurped by an old man, consumed by fear of death.
He was on Écofi Island, where the land was flat and the sea of grass stretched as far as the eye could see. Perched atop the Throne Pagoda, the emperor gazed at the distant herd of elephants strolling majestically across his field of view. Écofi was one of his favorite spots to pass through on his tours of the Islands. Miles and miles away from the busy cities and the intrigue of the palace in Pan, the emperor imagined that he was alone and free.
But he could not deny the pain in his stomach, the pain that now made it impossible for him to descend the Throne Pagoda on his own. He would have to call for help.
“Some medicine, Rénga?”
The emperor had said nothing. But Chatelain Goran Pira was, as always, observant. “This is prepared by an Écofi medicine woman who is said to know many secrets. It might ease the discomfort.”
The emperor hesitated, but relented. He sipped the bitter beverage, and it did seem to numb the pain slightly.
“Thank you,” the emperor said. Then, because only Goran could hear, he added, “Death catches up to us all.”
“Sire, speak not of such things. You should rest.”
Like all men who spent their lives in conquest, he had long turned his thoughts to the ultimate foe. For years, Pan had been filled with alchemists working on elixirs of eternal life and youth. Swindlers and con men had flooded the new capital and drained the treasury with their elaborate laboratories and research proposals that never seemed to produce anything useful; the clever ones always packed up and could not be found when it came time for an audit.
He had swallowed their pills, pills distilled from the essences of a thousand species of fish, some so rare that they were found in only a single lake in the mountains, pills prepared in the holy fire of Mount Fithowéo, pills that were supposed to protect him from a hundred diseases and make his body immune to the passage of time.
They had all lied. Here he was, his body ravaged by a disease that all the doctors gave different names to but were equally powerless against, a twisting, recurring pain in his stomach like a coiled snake that made him unable to eat.
But this medicine really is very good, the emperor thought.
“Goran,” he said, “the pain is much better. This is a good find.”
Chatelain Pira bowed. “I am your loyal servant, as always.”
“You’re my friend,” the emperor said, “my only true friend.”
“You must rest, Sire. The medicine is supposed to be a good soporific as well.”
I am sleepy.
But I still have so much to do.
For centuries, back before the Xana Conquest, back when young Mapidéré was still called Réon, his hair still full and lush and his face unlined, the Seven States had vied for dominance of the Islands of Dara: rustic and arid Xana in the far northwest, confined to the islands of Rui and Dasu; elegant and arrogant Amu, fortified in rain-drenched and balmy Arulugi and the fertile fields of Géfica, the land between the rivers; the Three Brother States of woodsy Rima, sandy Haan, and craggy Faça, nestled in the northern half of the Big Island; wealthy and sophisticated Gan in the east, filled with big cities and busy trading ports; and finally, martial Cocru on the southern plains, famed for her brave warriors and wise generals.