The Last Dragon of the East

Chapter 10

10

W e travel for four days and three nights riding double on horseback, headed farther south toward the Bo Shan Peninsula.

I have heard a great many tales of Longhao, the Southern Kingdom’s capital city. It’s said to be a fortress within a fortress. At the very center lies the Jade Palace, once home to the Southern Kingdom’s own imperial dynasty, carved from peak to foundation of the greenest jade, from which it received its name. That was several centuries ago, however. An uprising saw to the end of their rule, or so I’ve heard.

Now the Southern Kingdom is governed by a handful of provincial ministers, though I hear they fight among themselves more often than they work together. Too many captains aboard the ship, as it were. It’s frankly no wonder Emperor Róng decided to launch his war. It’s far easier to conquer your enemies when they already stand divided.

Now the Jade Palace lies empty and rotting, haunted by the wandering souls of kings of old, their concubines, and eunuchs alike. It’s not uncommon to hear tales about would-be thieves who sneak onto the premises in the dead of night, bringing along with them the tools they need to chip away at the walls and escape with handfuls of jade to sell under the table, as much as they can take before being frightened off by the strange noises in the palace. Some say a pair of nine-tailed fox demons roams the halls, searching for souls to devour—not that anyone is brave enough to prove it.

That’s what the traveling merchants have told me, at least. I was an impressionable young lad when they recounted these tales in town. Everything beyond the mountain border is a mystery to me. I might have enjoyed all this as some grand adventure if my heart weren’t so rife with concern for my mother.

I wasn’t always such a worrywart. I can remember the exact moment the world shifted around me, the easy days of my childhood vanishing overnight. It was the day after A-Ba’s funeral. My mother was normally the first in the family to rise. But that morning, I entered her room, my stomach grumbling and eager for breakfast, startled to find her curled up with one of A-Ba’s old robes. They still smelled like him, she said. For days, she didn’t eat, nor did she sleep. A-Ma didn’t move , too overcome by her grief to lift a finger. At five and ten, I suddenly became the man of the house. I was determined to take care of my mother at all costs.

Within the span of a week, I taught myself how to cook. I would stand by the food vendor stalls and watch them prepare hot meals over roaring woks, studying every spice and noting each step of their recipes. Some would shoo me away, calling me a nuisance, but most took pity on me.

Poor boy lost his A-Ba. Let him learn.

It was the teahouse I was most intimidated by. I feared attending to guests. I didn’t have A-Ba’s easy charisma, nor his lighthearted humor. I couldn’t talk to the grown-ups about politics or philosophy, and I had little interest in making small talk about the weather. But I knew I had to do something. A teahouse with a bad host couldn’t hope to survive for long.

So I began spending more of my mornings at the markets, listening intently to the tales of the traveling merchants. It was an education, in a way, exposing me to every corner of the Five Kingdoms without ever having to leave Jiaoshan. I would return to the teahouse every day with a new tale to share, and when I recounted it to my mother, I would do my best to imitate my father’s animated confidence.

I knew I was doing something right the day I finally made A-Ma laugh. It was many moons after the funeral, late at night, just as we were finishing dinner. I can hardly remember the story now—something about talking fish griping in the belly of a whale. She laughed so hard that it brought tears to her eyes, the sound hugging me like a warm blanket in the dead of winter. I swore I would have more of it.

I decided then that if it was a fool she needed, a fool I would be.

I hope A-Ma is well and doesn’t become even sicker with worry. I fear Emperor Róng may take his ire out on her if I don’t return promptly, but I hope even he won’t resort to such monstrousness. I wonder if I might be able to get a message to A-Ma over the closed border. The fastest way would be by carrier pigeon, but there will be no way of knowing whether the bird makes it home. Still, I must try. My first stop will be the post, should Longhao boast one in the first place.

I can’t wait to tell her all that has happened. My encounter with the emperor, my terrifying ride into battle—and my encounter with a living, breathing dragon .

It’s late afternoon by the time Feng tugs on the reins and brings the horse to a full stop just outside the city gates. She elbows me in the stomach as she throws her leg over and dismounts. I follow suit, eager to stretch my legs. It’s never been more obvious that I would have made a very poor horseman.

“Here, take this.” Feng throws a hooded cape over my head. It smells musty and sour with soil and sweat. My nose curls at the stink. I don’t dare ask where she had it stored.

“I take it you wish for me to put it on?” I ask, pinching the rough fabric between my fingers with a grimace.

“Ye look too foreign,” she tells me. “Try not to draw too much attention to yerself. People’re skittish around these parts. We’re at war, after all.”

Feng guides the horse through the city’s main gate. The outer walls show signs of recent work, stone slabs layered together with dried, cracking mud. The main road leading into the city is in an equal state of disrepair, though one glance at Longhao’s unique design is all it takes to understand why.

It is a city built upon water.

Narrow canals cut past buildings in a grid formation, arching gray moon bridges offering pedestrians safe passage over the murky river flow. Wilting wisteria trees droop along the water’s edge, their branches thin and bare, their shriveled purple petals floating away with the current. Long flat-bottomed boats made of smooth wooden planks line the sides of the canals in disorganized rows, their hulls filled with empty woven baskets. It’s a water market, though goods for purchase seem scarce and far between.

The border closure has taken its toll. The people here are starving. Perhaps this is a part of Emperor Róng’s strategy. The Empire stretches from east to west, trapping the Southern Kingdom of Jian on the other side of the mountain pass. Without direct passage for trade to move freely, imports can arrive only via the rough, unforgiving waters. Merchants who pass through Jiaoshan frequently bring with them the news of yet another capsized ship, lost to the unpredictable nature of the Albeion Sea. A year without proper access to food has left the people weak—too weak, even, to put up a proper fight.

“We need to restock before headin’ out on our hunt,” Feng states. She slaps a small pouch of coins into the palm of my hand. “I’ll find a stable fer the horse and get us supplies fer the trip. Yer in charge of food. Meet me back at this here main gate by nightfall.”

I nod hesitantly, sincerely hoping I don’t lose my way. Pulling my cape’s hood over my head, I set out in the opposite direction from Feng. I’ll find food just as she has asked, but first—the pigeon post.

The paths of Longhao are narrow, the waterways taking precedence over the walkways. There’s just enough space for two people, the grazing of shoulders inevitable when trying to pass someone in a hurry. It’s not the lack of space that concerns me, though—it’s the stark decay and poverty around every corner.

I was always led to believe that Longhao was a vibrant, thriving place, despite its abandoned palace. Instead, I find myself surrounded by a sea of beggars. Men, women, and children, all clad in soiled clothes, with their hands outstretched in the hopes that they might be spared a few coins. Pity sits cold in the well of my stomach. They’re everywhere, the poor and the forgotten, so weak and thin that they cannot lift their heads to look at me as I pass.

Something tugs at the hem of my cloak. A child’s little hand clings to the bottom corner.

“Please, sir,” he says in a barely audible whisper. “Have ye any food to spare?”

Feng gave me only enough coin to purchase food for the two of us, so I have little to offer besides my intentions. Still, I cannot in good conscience ignore the boy. I can almost hear A-Ma’s words.

Always do the right thing, Sai, she would say. Besides, it’s good karma. You don’t want to come back as a dung beetle, now, do you?

I’m just about to reach for my money pouch when someone grasps me by the shoulder.

“Stop.”

I turn to find a man in saffron-dyed robes, the simple cloth wrapped around his slender frame. His head is shaven down to the scalp, and his sandals are crafted with dull leather straps. An Albeion monk. A curious sight, indeed, given how reclusive their kind are said to be. I once heard that in order to become a monk, initiates must meditate for three moons without a bite of food or even a sip of water. Survive, and they’re ordained. If not… well.

In one hand, the monk fiddles with a necklace of smooth wooden beads. In the other, he holds a large bowl for collecting alms. “Yer charity is better spent with the temple,” he tells me. “Please, good sir, might we rely on yer kind donation?”

“But the child—”

The boy I’ve been talking to rushes over to the monks, hiding behind them like a shield. The mischievous, self-satisfied grin he wears makes me uneasy.

“My brothers and I use the givings we collect to buy and distribute food to those in need. I’ve seen too many squander away the generosity of strangers on poppy sap. Yer coin is in safer hands this way.”

He speaks in a convincing manner, and I know I should take a holy man at his word. Yet there’s something off about him. His expression is too perfect, too practiced. And what’s a monk doing collecting alms in the backstreets of the city, anyway? He showed up seemingly out of nowhere the moment I revealed my coin pouch.

I slowly take a step back and away. Something’s amiss.

“I must be off,” I mumble, attempting to keep my tone breezy. “There’s only so much daylight.”

The monk’s friendliness instantly melts away, replaced with a menacing scowl. “Where d’ye think yer goin’?”

Out of the corner of my eye, four lumbering figures emerge from around the corner. They, too, are dressed in monks’ robes, but their smug expressions and bruised knuckles suggest they don’t adhere to the teachings of pacifism.

The five of them block the path forward and back. I have no escape.

“Hand over yer coin!” one of the imposters growls, his Southern accent so thick that his words come out a near-indecipherable jumble.

For a moment, I consider it. Perhaps it’s wisest to follow the path of least resistance. If I explain why I lost her money, Feng might understand. Or, more likely, she’ll stab me through. It’s the choice of being beaten to a pulp now or later. I slowly reach for my coin pouch—

And scramble up the rickety wall of the low shanty house beside me, throwing all my momentum into the jump. The men curse and race after me. One of them manages to grip my ankle just as I clamber onto the roof, but I end up kicking him right in the mouth and using his face to boost myself up. He falls back with a hard thud.

“Sorry!” I rasp, purely on instinct.

“Don’t let ’im get away!” the first imposter monk shouts.

I roll clumsily off the opposite slope of the roof and land awkwardly on the narrow street on the other side. It’s less crowded here, but nowhere near safe. With no other options, I run. My pursuers give chase, following so close I swear I can feel their labored breaths raking down my spine. They spit slanders at me, taunt me mercilessly, but still I flee.

I take a left and then a right, squeezing through narrow side alleys in the hopes of shaking off my would-be robbers. And here I thought I might enjoy a break from all my running. I end up taking a turn so sharply that I almost fall into the canal—a near-fatal move on my part, since I can’t swim.

I don’t know where I’m going, the layout of Longhao’s labyrinthine footpaths unreasonably difficult to navigate. One wrong turn, and I could fall into the water. Even worse: I come to a full stop, trapped in a dead end. Out of breath, I turn slowly to see that the awful charlatans once again have me pinned.

“Gentlemen,” I say as evenly as possible. “Let’s just forget this whole thing ever happened, hmm? I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”

One of the monks draws a knife, flashing his teeth with an ugly sneer. “Hand yer coin over, and I promise to gut ye nice and clean.”

Sweat beads across my brow as I attempt to ignore the ache of my lungs. This is all so hopeless. “Come on, then,” I hiss, bracing for the worst. “You’ll have to pry it off me!”

“With pleasure, you little—”

Someone kicks the monk forward, cutting him off. The impact is so violent that I swear I hear him swallow his own tongue. He lands on his face, nose crunching in and teeth shattering against the hard ground. His partners in crime whip around in confusion, rage painting their expressions a vibrant red.

“Who—” The pretender who tries to speak is gifted with a swift crack of knuckles against his jaw. He stumbles back with a sharp grunt.

All eyes are on the stranger standing at the mouth of the narrow alley. They have a mask on their face, and are clad from head to toe in a hooded dark green cape, so dark that it appears almost black. Confusion lances through me. Is this another thief, hoping to take my coin? Why do I feel like I’m being… pulled toward them, as if there were a strong wind behind me?

The newcomer moves swiftly, so nimble that their movements are an almost-imperceptible blur. A powerful kick sends another monk careening into the wall, his skull smashing against the jagged bricks. A terrifying strike knocks the last of my attackers out cold, the crack of his ribs echoing loudly in my ears. One after another, the thieves meet their brutal defeat, but my savior doesn’t stop.

They charge at me next with such alarming speed that I stumble backward and raise my hands in surrender, heart hammering against my rib cage.

“Wait, please, I—”

The stranger’s hand flies out. But instead of reaching for my coin purse, they snatch my ordinance scroll from my belt. I stare in awe as they quickly unroll it, revealing the three different paper talismans stuck to the inside. They are thin yellow bits of parchment covered in expertly drawn red-ink calligraphy. I do recognize the symbols, but the characters are too ancient for me to comprehend.

Before my mind has the chance to spiral, my attention is pulled elsewhere. As the hooded stranger wordlessly rips my ordinance scroll to shreds, I see their hands.

Tied around their right little finger is a fraying gray thread—its end connected to mine.

My mouth falls open. I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. I try to get a better look at their face, but it’s completely covered by their mask and hood. “You.”

They toss the bits of the ordinance to the ground and give my chest a hard shove. My back slams against the alley wall. The contact is brief, but there’s no denying the sudden heat that flickers over my skin where they’ve touched me. It’s an explosion of firecrackers, alarming at first, then oddly pleasant.

“Leave,” the stranger hisses. The voice of a woman, of my Fated One .

“Wait!” I exclaim, winded and shaking. “Wait, I beg you!”

She turns on her heel and sprints away without a word. My heart sinks. No, this isn’t right. I can’t let her go. Not without answers.

I’ve nearly lost her by the time I round the corner, but thankfully see her fleeting silhouette out of the corner of my eye. I give chase right up until the canal’s edge, deterred only by the deep, dark water. All I can do is watch as she jumps from the embankment and leaps from river boat to river boat, vanishing into the thick fog rolling in to blanket all of Longhao.

I watch in confusion and dismay as my gray thread of fate tugs weakly along after her. Any remaining thoughts I have of giving chase evaporate the moment the thread changes direction, pointing directly into the now-raining sky.