Emperor's Hostages

By Gloria Piper

Wren is a shape shifter whose magic is flawed; every promise he makes takes unexpected turns. One failed promise caused his enslavement to barbarian royalty. The tale begins a thousand years later, when an emperor, who collects hostages to ensure the obedience of conquered kings, conquers the barbarian kingdom where Wren serves. Snatching at an opportunity to escape bondage, Wren offers himself as hostage for his king, promising to win their freedom. However Wren's first act, upon meeting the emperor, is to insult him. Events worsen when Wren befriends a hostage prince, involves two lovers in a struggle for the throne, helps to raise an army for them, dodges the thrusts of an oracle who can't forgive Wren for impersonating him, and faces the dilemma of saving a princess's life or dying by his own magic.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gloria Piper
• Release date: Nov 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301209170

Gloria Piper

When working in biology, I missed art. When working in art, I missed biology. It took a bout of multiple chemical sensitivities to limit me to writing. At last here was a niche in which I felt old-clothes comfortable. At last I could indulge all my interests, from art and science to nature and spirituality, from reality to fantasy. My most recent awards range from honorable mention to editor's choice for my science fiction and fantasy writing. I live in Northern California with my husband of late years who thinks I'm the most beautiful lady he's ever met and tells me a hundred times a day in a hundred ways how much he loves me.

Book preview

Prologue

It wasn’t.

Suddenly, it was.

Giving no thought to its origins, it pranced through the universe, traveling at speeds faster than light without seeming to move, tasting the stars, the cosmic clouds, the gravity wells. It examined black matter and akashic records. It sniffed gaseous worlds.

Eventually it discovered a planet vibrant with life contained in physical form. Since the entity could condense or expand and sublimate back and forth between the spirit and the physical, it mimicked what it saw. An extra pebble appeared on a beach, an extra duckling behind a mother, an extra tree in a copse. The entity mimicked action and discovered answers to what life is. It tasted many things and rejoiced even in pain, for it knew it could escape at will.

Then Petrah strolled by.

What beauty! An extra willow in the forest stretched tall, so it could stare unnoticed. The youth strummed a lute, and his tenor lilted as if on butterfly wings. His feet licked at the path as if their home were the heavens. Most especially, the air shimmered about him in variegated autumn hues. Such an aura could not be dismissed. The willow changed to a wren and joined the young minstrel’s melody, filling the woods and hills with music.

Petrah fell silent when the serenading bird settled on his little finger. Its voice eased into human tones, so when it ceased its song, the youth’s face expressed only delight when it spoke.

Greetings. I am a magician, and I wish to be your friend and protector. Name me, and I will appear in whatever guise you wish.

What a stroke! Petrah’s aura shimmered with hungry green light, and he counted on his fingers. Since you sing so fine as a wren, I’ll call you Wren and expect you to sing for me. And I wouldn’t be the least upset if you turned falcon at times to hunt for food when the coins are few, or turned wolf to protect me. He added, with a laugh, Or turned into a pretty maid, with hair the color of autumn leaves and the figure and grace of a dancer, to keep me warm and amused.

So began a partnership between artists, satisfying in all respects. They traveled many countries and entertained avid listeners with duets. In Zandglia, they performed before the queen.

The queen honored them and invited them to stay as court musicians. Finally she refused to let Petrah leave. She wanted him for her consort.

Petrah moped over steamed puddings, frowned from goose-down cushions, and seethed in velvet-lined guest quarters. What a bad stroke! Wren, how do I get out of this?

"No problem, dear Petrah. I’ll free you. I promise."

The air rippled and tinkled like glass chimes.

Petrah’s eyes widened. What was that?

Mm. Wren wasn’t sure, herself, until the Source of Creation opened a window in her mind and illuminated the answer. The power of my word, she said.

The universe had acknowledged her promise and sealed it. Until the promise played out, it would mirror back its success or failure at Wren, as if she were its recipient. In this case, the promise would bring her freedom or captivity.

Nothing to worry about. Petrah wanted freedom, Wren was magical enough to deliver him, so they both would be free.

But the queen pampered him.

Petrah succumbed to royal charms, declared his love of the queen, and told Wren to cancel her promise. He no longer wanted to escape.

Alas, the promise could not be canceled. Wren tried to seduce him away, but the queen stopped her with this warning, If you are to be a maid around Petrah, you will resemble a nine-year-old. Otherwise you will be a boy.

Wren chose the form of a youth, becoming a he. He tried to leave Zandglia, and every time, a whirlwind settled on him. It prevented him from shape-shifting or flying. Out of it leaped a storm of falcons, wolves, and other predators while its prison walls of wind remained. Inside it he fled in circles. He struck and deflected blows. Only after he fell beneath the mob and lay, wheezing and surrendered, did they and the wind vanish. The queen of Zandglia gained not only a consort but a slave.

Years passed and then centuries, during which Wren served Petrah’s descendants.

The best of times came with Sophy’s reign, for the queen elevated Wren to royal magician and adviser and gave him freedom to explore the universe. In turn, Wren helped Queen Sophy unite Zandglia with roads, aqueducts, and protective laws. The golden era lasted sixty years.

The worst of times came after Sophy’s death when her son, Tyrol, ushered in the Black Reign. At first Wren served as his jester with biting wit and sage advice. But Tyrol grew obsessed with expanding Zandglia’s borders. He left the administration of the kingdom to his wife, then rendered her powerless by squandering the country’s resources on his wars. With the country poised on ruin and his wife estranged, King Tyrol confined Wren to the palace as nurse for little Winshaw, the king’s heir. Eighty-eight times, Wren tried to run away. Eighty-eight times a whirlwind of predators overwhelmed him. He sank into depression and loneliness.

By the time Tyrol’s men murdered their king and replaced him with Winshaw, thirty years passed. Sophy’s roads and aqueducts lay in ruin, and the country-at-large retained no memory of her golden era.

King Winshaw showed no sign of his father’s obsession for expanding Zandglia’s frontiers. Neither did he show signs of responsibility, other than taking a wife. Three years into his reign, his mother still fumbled with control at the castle while he accepted as normal a country splintered into clans. He was endearing, a do-nothing king. For that reason, people called him Good King Winshaw.

After his wife died, he stuck Wren with baby sitting his daughter. Unable to face continued confinement alone, a soul-wearied Wren created two extensions of himself, voluptuous Goldie and androgynous Midnite. Wren named himself The Triunity, but his honor didn’t grow; his bitterness remained. The damage to his psyche could be repaired by only one thing. Freedom.

Part I

Chapter 1

Where else but at Tyrol’s Outpost could we, The Triunity, better contemplate our captivity? The moonless night, the wilting leaves of fall, the wilderness valley beside the eastern mountains suited our melancholy. From long habit, we joined the night as shadows and soaked our thoughts in misery. When would we—Wren, Midnite, and Goldie—ever be free?

Tink.

Scrape.

What was that? A tink and a scrape didn’t belong with the hoot of owls in the pines or the rustle of rats in the kitchen garbage. We peered through the night, our shadow vision unaffected by the dark. No motion appeared among the log buildings. No movement filtered down the overgrown trail that led west to the interior of Zandglia. We swung our attention away from the forests on either side of our valley and looked east.

They came like phantoms. We noticed them filing out of the mountains that separated Zandglia’s frontier from the Tan Shee Empire. With autumn the hidden route between the two countries had no snow to block it.

At first we thought the intruders were deer, until one broke free of the conifers and was followed by another and another. They were men on horseback, head and shoulders shorter than Zandglians and more numerous than we could count.

How odd. Tan Sheans never visited Zandglia. Yet there they appeared, having crossed the eastern mountains through a passage the late King Tyrol had searched for and never found. Their slipping in seemed as impossible as if we had slipped out of Zandglia, a kingdom that was the cage in which we were locked by Wren’s magical promise.

Tan Shee was famous for its wealth, scholarship, and peace. Nevertheless, the line that flowed into the pre-dawn light revealed leather armor, lances, and archery. And the horses’ hoofs were wrapped.

The last star faded. The soldiers moved like ghosts over frosted weeds and dirt, heeding unspoken signals. They circled downwind, in full view of Tyrol’s Outpost. Its log buildings squatted around an exercise field. The only sounds from the post were the snores of men in the barracks, sleeping off a late-night revelry. The sun would be up soon, well ahead of the men.

The invaders reached the outermost building. We coagulated from shadow into three humans, so we could open the door to the kennel. Up, Howler, Wag, Nip, and the rest of you. Up and out.

We resumed shadow form and swirled, nudging the wind to carry the foreigners’ scent to the dogs. One yapped. Another yammered. Soon the whole pack raced out to meet the warriors and bark them to flight.

We zipped into the barracks, which Good King Winshaw shared with his men. A few twitched at the ruckus. Winshaw growled, flopped over, and snored.

Pst, we said.

Rotten curs, someone mumbled into his fur blanket. Pick the worst times to fight.

High yelps of pain followed the clamor. The chorus of barks thinned.

Pst, we’re being invaded.

Snores answered.

We sprang back to the confrontation in time to see the dogs dropped by arrows. In silence, the warriors dismounted and spread out. We drifted after them and mulled whether to rush ahead to thrash the men awake or leap to the nursery to protect Dear Heart. Winshaw’s two-year-old daughter was our responsibility since her mother died a year ago from a lung disease brought on by smoky, drafty quarters. Like ants, the invaders swarmed all over. Some entered the storehouse; others the stables, the great hall, the nursery, the barracks. It was too late for our men to defend themselves against so superior a force and survive. We floated over Dear Heart’s straw-tick bed, ready to attack any who dared harm her. The two-year-old slept on, though a stranger lifted her like a cherished daughter and carried her outside.

Hey! What—! Startled cries yanked us to the barracks. Each Zandglian lay inert, gripping blankets or with arms half outstretched toward weapons. With the rising sun, each gawked up at a Tan Shean warrior who held a blade that had pricked him awake.

Easy, men, Winshaw said over the sword at his throat. Watch and wait.

The invaders’ sharp grunts and gestures needed no interpretation. It didn’t take long for seventy Zandglians, grabbing whatever clothes lay at hand, to be poked and prodded into the exercise yard. Little men shoved them into the dust and forced them to kneel and dress from that position. On the edge of the exercise field, a foreign soldier held Dear Heart’s hand.

Da! Her legs cranked as she tried to run to her father; the soldier gave her a shake.

She stood, bemused. No one had ever disciplined her before. Unresisting, she watched the activities.

Zandglians resembled lumpy bears before sleek Tan Sheans. Auras—something only we could see—sizzled red and black among the prisoners. A shimmer of gray and yellow fear mixed in, so we were surprised when one hothead erupted.

Harrrgh! He slapped aside a halberd, leaped up, and snatched the knife from his captor’s sheath. Aharrr! He lunged at the back of the passing knight-in-charge.

Without a break in his stride, the little knight shrugged his sword up. Blood spurted, missing him. The young man’s head plopped onto the ground and rolled among the gaping Zandglians. Some started and the whang of a sword-flat or halberd over the skull knocked them face-down in the dirt. Dear Heart struggled against the soldier who held her. Shimmers of fear overtook the prisoners’ auras, but the Tan Sheans showed little emotion. Their leader had merely swatted an oversized fly.

The little man continued his swagger until his shadow fell over King Winshaw. He growled, apparently from long practice, General Kam Po, I be. Royal knight of Tan Shee.

Winshaw rocked back onto his heels. General Kam Po. appeared almost immaculate in polished bronze and red leather, while Winshaw reminded us of a tumbleweed in greasy hunting pelts. His gray gaze lifted, lips firm against gritted teeth.

Vassal king, you be. Emperor Suto declare. Language of Tan Shee, you learn. Yearly tribute, you give. Most prize possession, you give. Make you obey. Time, I give you for consider what prize possession you give. Without waiting for an answer, Kam Po turned to direct the looting.

We knew, and we assumed the general knew that any king’s most prized possession would be a crown prince, or in this case, princess. Dear Heart had clearly shown whom she belonged to.

She screeched and the soldier released her. He joined those who were dragging a cinder-bitten carpet from the dining hall into the dust before Winshaw.

Dear Heart ran on stubby legs toward her father’s outstretched arms, only to find Tan Shean’s barring her way. Her wails tolled through the exercise yard, over the log barracks, across the forested hills, and off the mountains.

Tears in King Winshaw’s eyes reflected the bright colors of royal valuables being dumped on the carpet. Gold, silver, precious jewels. We hid as a shadow in the curve of his kneeling body and counted them. Then we spread into thinness and drifted over his men, who hunkered in the dust, beneath sabers and halberds. Except for the hothead, not a one was injured, apart from his pride. Dear Heart arrived at the carpet across from her father and retrieved from the booty an empty bird perch that glittered gold in the sun. The little soldiers of Tan Shee ignored the yowling child, their faces inscrutable or fixed in scowls. Some of the kneeling Zandglians shifted hard looks from their decapitated comrade to Winshaw, whose face betrayed his embarrassment and sorrow. His aura radiated the same sickly hues as his men’s—anger, fear, frustration, a desire to fight.

The queen’s jewels were joined by silver goblets, lace shawls, and spoons. Sacks of grain joined the pile. We doubted this bothered Winshaw much. They were merely taxes collected from Zandglia—whenever he remembered to send an agent, which wasn’t often. Yesterday, he was Good King Winshaw, beloved for his neglect of duties by a populace wearied of the Black Reign of his father, King Tyrol. Now, because of his neglect, this happened. Those who felt the bronze at their throats surely thought this disgrace mightn’t have befallen them if King Tyrol wasn’t murdered by his own men three years before. Tyrol’s Outpost had been thrown up as a winter camp on the remote eastern frontier while King Tyrol waited for spring, to seek passage through mountains that walled off the prized Tan Shee. But Tyrol was murdered and his son crowned in his place. Winshaw’s first sovereign act was to dismiss the army, except for those who wished to stay—fifty stalwarts and a few volunteers. After a year of boredom at the palace, he left most of his duties to his mother—old, frail, not particularly talented—and returned with a wife and baby to the foot of the eastern mountains, not to seek passage and conquest but to hunt, play games, and drink with the men. Tan Shee had only to raise a finger and pluck a nut from the edge of a pastry to get the whole thing.

Sun vanquished the morning chill. Air stood motionless, seemingly captive to the invaders. Winshaw rubbed sweat from his forehead and ignored the brown straggles that fell over his fleshy face and beefy shoulders. His eyes shifted, searching. Sst, Wren.

We collected, a shadow under his chin, and did not answer. We knew what would follow.

Why didn’t you warn us? Winshaw, so predictable.

Hadn’t the dogs pounded the air with their warnings? Hadn’t the men ignored the barking? Acting immediately, men and dogs might have thwarted the invasion before the outpost was overrun. Once the dogs were felled, all hope of victory fled. Too late, we could have shrilled the alarm so king and soldiers could avoid dishonor by swinging their swords and dying gloriously and stupidly before superior numbers. Instead, we saved lives, for all the thanks we’d get. Now, unseen by Zandglians but odorous, dogs roasted on spits between buildings. After the victors left, Zandglians would mourn lost pets and pick at their shame like at a worry-bone and mutter that if Good King Winshaw had kept his father’s army, they’d have avoided capture and the loss of an entire kingdom. But not to worry. Good old Wren would swoop to the rescue. Zandglian freedom and honor would be saved, and we would remain as unappreciated and captive as ever.

Unless. . . . For the first time since Petrah married the queen, we saw a germ of opportunity. What we needed was a plan.

The sun climbed halfway across the sky. Foreigners munched flesh on sticks. Zandglian bellies remained empty. The conquered men fidgeted in the dust and breathed in the scalded-feather smell of blood from their decapitated comrade and the smell of cooked pets. Their stamina was less than Dear Heart’s whose cries continued undiminished. She wandered along the pile of booty, gold perch still in hand, cheeks muddy. Everyone ignored her, their ears as iron as her lungs.

Unable to go to her, Winshaw expected us to comfort her, no doubt. We felt it wiser to remain hidden; besides, we were busy deliberating. It seemed best to let Dear Heart shriek, for her sword edge shrieks were her best protection against being coveted by the Tan Shean conquerer. Besides Winshaw took pride in her strength and stamina, whatever form it took.

The last of the grain left the storehouse, and horses that dwarfed the Tan Shean mounts stood before Tan Shean inspection. Sweat glistened on the king’s forehead and matted long strings of brown hair. He stuck a finger in one ear, probably to scratch rather than mute the shrilling of his daughter, because the next target of those dirt-lined nails was an armpit. He squirmed. The other Zandglians squirmed. Little soldiers tilted their bronze weapons to catch the sun’s glare and remind the hairy ones that to stand was to die.

Flies found the Zandglian corpse and droned like bees. Dear Heart howled.

Winshaw wiped his nose on the back of his hand.

Poor, motherless tike. He was trying to make us feel guilty; we saw the deceit in his aura.

From time to time his hand strayed to the empty waistband that normally held his knife.

After much discussion, the victors declined to take the Zandglian horses, except for those that could pull wagons of valuables. Kam Po returned and pointed his sword at Winshaw.

Is time. Most prize possession, you give.

Winshaw rubbed his waistband. You already have it. He swept his arm around almost colliding with a blade. He yanked his arm in close. My sword.

Kam Po frowned at him, unconvinced.

Winshaw frowned back and wiped his sweaty palm on his shirt. My horse.

Kam Po shook his head.

What more could you want? My sword, my horse, my dog.

Not most prize. Kam Po pointed to each of the men. Most prize? Most prize? Yes?

Winshaw drew in a breath, held it. He did value his men highly, but they weren’t most prized, and he and the general knew it.

The king spoke through gritted teeth. All I have, you’ve taken. What more is there when you’ve taken my whole country?

Kam Po struck his palms together, a glancing blow, making those captives about him jump. That glancing blow seemed to proclaim that Zandglia and whatever valuables the Tan Sheans had taken were beneath consideration. Winshaw had nothing to bargain with.

Tears streaked Winshaw’s ruddy cheeks and joined the sweat in his red beard.

Neither mercy showed in Kam Po’s black, slit eyes nor in his down-curved mouth, its fierceness accentuated by a long down-curved mustache. Most prize possession, you give.

We could see the agony in Winshaw’s quavering aura. Before all else, he prized Dear Heart. With no other children about, it was apparent she was his heir. Ruddy, raw boned, unmistakably his daughter. We poised beneath the bird perch, ready to guide him in the right direction.

Winshaw frowned at his fist and squeezed his eyes shut.

You give, Kam Po said.

Winshaw wiped an eye, raised a thick finger, and pointed at the wailing child. My daughter—

Daughter’s magical pets, no! a bird voice cut in. A flicker of finches—gold, black, and iridescent brown—appeared on the perch in the child’s hand.

The brown finch continued in a nasal voice, Would you give away your poor, motherless daughter’s gift just because it’s your favorite? A family heirloom for centuries? Would you give away the magical Triune Finches, for whom no equal is known?

Enemy soldiers gaped as we sparkled in and out of visibility. Golden Goldie, black Midnite, and iridescent brown Wren. The girl’s sobs subsided.

Wren, our animating force, flitted to Winshaw’s shoulder and, unfinchlike, walked to his ear. Would you give your most beautiful songsters away? Wren said, then under his breath, Keep your daughter. We’ll rescue you.

Palming his own face, the king whispered, Could you do that? Could you save Zandglia and the royal family?

"We will win freedom for you and Zandglia from the very lips of the ruler of Tan Shee. We promise."

The air trembled and tinkled, reminding us of a key turning a tumbler in a lock. Fate bound us to our promise, just as it had so long ago. A little tic in the craw suggested we were too specific in our promise, but the tic lasted less than a second. The promise should be easy to fulfill. Nothing to worry about, really.

Winshaw blinked. We held our breath in anticipation.

Take the Triune Finches, he said aloud.

Kam Po’s free hand slashed the air. A spear man pried the perch from the screaming child’s grasp. Our ears rang for hours, but our hearts sang. After a thousand years, we faced the outcome of another promise, the sweet promise of freedom.

Chapter 2

How do you plan to win our freedom?

Every so often Winshaw shot us the question, as a whisper from the side of his mouth, a wordless movement of lips, or an aimed look with raised brows.

We didn’t bother to answer while Kam Po directed the loading of spoils into Zandglian wagons and the hitching of Zandglian horses to pull them. Tan Shean soldiers scattered the rest of the big horses into the forest.

A hundred feet away, our men watched from where they huddled in the dirt before the barracks. Only Anglewit, tall and angular and appearing witless, stood near the wagons with the good king. Anglewit was Winshaw’s steward and our caretaker for the journey. He held the gold perch on which we sat.

Through Kam Po’s tortured attempts to communicate with Winshaw, we learned that only Winshaw and Anglewit would accompany the Tan Sheans in their homeward trek. Apparently Emperor Suto liked to meet his vassals and give them their terms of tribute face to face. We Triunity, as hostages, ranked with the booty.

How do you plan to win our freedom? Winshaw whispered at us through his beard.

Have faith, good king. We will so endear ourselves to the Emperor, he won’t be able to refuse our request.

Winshaw darted looks at Kam Po. Whatever you do, he warned, don’t let anyone think you’re more than magical birds. If the Emperor finds out you can shape-shift, he’ll want to keep you and we’ll never get our freedom.

Da! Dear Heart trotted over, and Winshaw bent to pick her up. He buried his lips in her hair, the same red as his beard, and gave her a hidden kiss.

She clung to his neck. Wanna go wif you, Da.

Kam Po signaled a soldier to take Dear Heart away. The man grabbed the girl by the waist.

Let her come with me, Winshaw said.

Wanna go!

The man pulled, and Dear Heart hugged Winshaw’s arm.

Without moving from our perch, we transmitted Wren’s voice into Winshaw’s ear. Send her to your mother at the palace, or Kam Po may choose her over us as hostage.

Dear Heart screeched in Winshaw’s ear. He winced. It’s best you stay here, he said.

No!

The soldier tugged, and Dear Heart’s grip slipped to Winshaw’s sleeve.

No, no, no! Wanna go!

Winshaw caught her up into his arms, and she buried her face in his shoulder.

Kam Po, he said, are you a father? You know what it’s like to have children? Let me provide for my daughter’s care while I’m gone. He nodded at his men. Let me speak to them.

Kam Po gave a squint that passed for a blink. He raised one finger.

We think he’s giving you one minute, we said in Winshaw’s ear.

Winshaw backed away from Kam Po, bowing and smiling. Holding a sniffling Dear Heart, he hastened across the exercise field. He waved at the Tan Shean guards, then squatted with his men. Wait for me. Take care of Dear Heart while I’m gone.

Should we take her to her grandmother at the palace? one asked.

Stay at Tyrol’s Outpost. All of you. I’ll return with Wren’s remedy.

Grunts of approval followed.

***

Under guard we toiled through the mountains, suffering sloppy streams, which were low enough in autumn to serve as part of the trail. Clayey mud mired the wheels of supply wagons and clung to horses’ hoofs. Actually, the Tan Shean soldiers, Winshaw, and Anglewit suffered, since they had to dismount often and assist the Zandglian draft horses. The knights remained on their steeds, and we, the Triunity, were merely inconvenienced by finding it wise to stay as finches within grabbing distance of the perch that balanced on the pommel of Anglewit’s saddle.

While the three men rode abreast ahead of the others, Kam Po marked every activity and every inactivity by drilling Winshaw and Anglewit on his language. Speak after me. The general would point to objects, movements, and eventually concepts. Again, again, again. No, no, no. Do not speak Zandgleze. Speak Tan Shean. Again.

Well into autumn the road slithered out of the mountains into hills covered with oak trees and grassland. We stopped at an overlook above a farm-filled plain that stretched to the distant Eastern Sea. By then, we Zandglians had a fair command of the new language, and Kam Po never uttered another word of ours.

The general glanced from Winshaw to the scene. Behold, barbarian, the great civilization, Tan Shee, blessed by Fate. From the beginning of time, barbarians from everywhere—the western mountains of Oriambulay, the northeastern flood crescent of Ribblelak, and the desert clans across the Eastern Sea—have sent their sons to study Tan Shean language, science, and humanities. We have great gardens, zoos, and the magnificence of the Cloister. In every way, we are rich while others, like you, grovel in filth and ignorance.

Winshaw swayed on his mount toward Anglewit and murmured, We’re not so bad.

Anglewit seemed too focused on the view to answer.

Mustn’t brag, we said in the king’s ear.

Yeah, yeah, I’m not stupid.

The journey and the lessons resumed over a road that coated hides and throats with yellow dust, stirred up by wheels and feet. We traveled southeast through a country where families gathered in the harvest. Men, women, and children scythed wheat, millet, and barley, dug turnips, and loaded melons onto ox-drawn carts. We marveled at this productivity. Kam Po told us it was nothing compared to the Emperor’s Cloister.

In it perfection reigns, for it resides in the Oracle’s favor.

Winshaw mumbled to Anglewit, Nothing wrong with Zandglia’s farms, and we got great hunting.

Kam Po snapped him a look. What did you say?

Winshaw slapped a hand over his heart. You got me humbled, sir knight. Compared with all this, Zandglia is an insult to the Emperor. Best thing you could do is toss us back.

Kam Po’s aura leaped red, and his mouth quivered over what could only be harsh words that strained to escape. After the space of a heartbeat, he spoke with detachment. Honorable Suto demands only tribute. If you comply and Fate wills, we will not enter your land again. You will learn more when you meet the Emperor.

We entered a curious area where farms grew smaller, until they impinged on one another, as if shoved together to make room for something monstrous. Fields shrank to plots between thatched huts. The odor of human waste lay on the air, and chickens, dogs, and pigs rummaged through strewn refuse. Dogs barked at us, until ragged children or barefoot women heaved rocks at them or grabbed them by the scruff and hauled them from sight. No one stopped the flies, however. They seemed to think we were more enticing than the cast-off treasures of the kitchen. The soldiers swatted. The knights faced straight ahead, as if only the road existed, for they were above the indignity of battling insects. Winshaw and Anglewit briefly waved at a fly but generally ignored the pests, not from any show of dignity but because they were accustomed to such swarms at the Outpost. We finches snapped them up and swallowed them.

Farther along, huts squeezed the life out of the plots, so all that remained were weeds, trash, and dust.

How do these people survive? Wren asked Kam Po’s back.

We knew from a brief flair of his aura that he heard us. Nevertheless he continued to ride ahead without answering. Evidently he didn’t talk to birds, and we didn’t dare transform into something more suitable, like a fellow knight. The Tan Sheans must believe we were nothing more wonderful than magical finches.

We caught up with a line of five workers carrying shovels on their shoulders. They stepped off the road to let us pass. Pony-drawn carts or women walking also moved out of our way.

Eventually our horses struck brick pavement. Our wagon wheels rattled and screeched. Anglewit hunched his shoulders toward his ears, and with each screech he gritted his teeth and cursed under his breath. The dust and the flies thinned and were forgotten. Squat huts shared the wayside with immaculate booths, inns, and elegant temples. Buildings varied from mud brick or bamboo to redwood or stone. We had entered Royal City.

All those cramped dwellings we passed must supply workers to the city, Wren told Anglewit.

Anglewit’s one hand held his horse’s reins. The other rested on our bird perch. He darted looks about, like a squirrel ready to leap for shelter. He didn’t answer, so we finches—Midnite, Goldie, and Wren—muttered among ourselves. Mm, what collection of ornate buildings might we see in the Cloister?

Royal City’s streets wound off to the left. Hawkers sang of their goods. Decorated carts laden with vegetables or grain or caged chickens poked through the crowds. Street musicians plinked and whined, and the smell of unfamiliar foods and flowers titillated our nostrils. Boys sat on mats in a courtyard and chanted after an instructor.

Midnite spoke in a soft alto. Those must be the students from many lands that General Kam Po told us about.

To our right rose an earthen wall along which the soldiers herded us. The strength of its presence and its cover of shiny green leaves gave us an uneasy feeling. Not far from Anglewit’s hand, we remained silent on our perch, swaying to the horse’s gait. The clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop matched our good king’s heartbeat.

Winshaw craned his neck at the wall’s great height. Sst, Anglewit, you see that?

Looks like a field set on edge.

Not something to climb. You see those thorns?

The steward raised his eyebrows. As long as a man’s hand.

Why do you suppose they would plant something like that?

To keep people out? Anglewit asked.

Or in, Winshaw said.

You think we’re pris—?

Winshaw cut him short with a wave. The king switched his attention to us. I hope you don’t turn female and try to romance him. He might want to marry you, and we’d still be captives.

We restrained ourselves from sighing in disgust. If we were to stay embodied as finches, we certainly wouldn’t be tossing sexual enticements at the Emperor.

The soldiers continued straight ahead toward a garrison. We remained behind with most of the knights beside an over-towering wooden gate that gaped in the thorny wall. Little traffic passed through.

As we expected, Kam Po pointed through the gate. Behold. The Cloister, pearl of Tan Shee, home of the Oracle’s most favored and great Emperor Suto, Conqueror of Oriambulay, Ribblelak, Shri Dahbee, and Zandglia.

By then we’d heard our fill about the Cloister. A day’s ride in circumference, it was separated from the rest of Suto’s realm by the thorny earthen wall. Inside, all was glorious. Kam Po had crowed about it throughout the journey.

It lived up to his boasts. Giant ginkgo trees, ablaze in autumn’s uniform yellow, lined the straight Palace Avenue. Limestone surface gleaming, it was broad as the exercise yard at Tyrol’s Outpost. Onlookers dotted vast greens along either side. Not a face was ugly, not a limb withered or missing, not a back crooked. The knights rode, tall and proud, beside us and the wagons of spoil. Winshaw and Anglewit, looking daunted, rode like blobs of jelly. Disgusting. Sit up straight, we wanted to shout. Instead, we maintained the form of three magic finches who sat their perch like eagles.

Palace Avenue ended in a stark courtyard, behind which reared a marble and gilt edifice with a double tier of curled red roofs. Spears bristled along its spine. We’d not seen the like anywhere in all Wren’s travels with Petrah. Stone castles were common. Zandglia had a particularly clumsy looking one. The Tan Shean example, however, had the grace of a bird in flight.

Winshaw’s horse almost brushed Anglewit’s, so we knew the king wanted to address us. Throughout the long trip, our perch remained balanced on Anglewit’s saddle. Why don’t you hypnotize the Emperor? Winshaw said. We visit the court, you hypnotize him, and he sends us all home. Quick and easy.

Neither quick nor easy, Wren answered for us. We can’t hypnotize him to do something against his will. Nevertheless we’ll work on him. We will act as jester.

Winshaw chuckled, than coughed when Kam Po looked his way.

Our biting humor had made King Tyrol laugh and then release us to remain with his estranged queen at the castle to help raise little Winshaw. After all, a ruler’s pride forbade him or her to act insulted by a court fool. In public, the ruler would laugh. In private, he would take the jester’s advice. If he found the barbs of humor too sharp, he would send the jester away, with blessing, so as to appear generous before the court. That was the tradition among the rulers of Zandglia.

Once our party mounted the steps into the palace, Good King Winshaw put on a brave front. Flanked by knights, he grinned through his red beard, as if he were free and Emperor Suto the conquered. His reflection grinned from gilded pillars. Our gaze climbed those pillars to a ceiling where geese flew in murals between vermilion beams.

A murmur and the clink of pottery brought our attention down to the marble tile floor and then to the periphery of the great hall. There thirty lords and fifty ladies sat on mats at low tables eating with jeweled sticks. They eyed us newcomers. Spicy odors wafted our way, much lighter than those of the meat and beer we’d learned to expect in Winshaw’s dark hall, where food not consumed was tossed on the straw-covered floor for the hounds. We saw nary a pup in the Tan Shean palace, nary a fly. Such grandeur made the good king look uncivilized. Anglewit looked especially so, his overgrown coltish form bent as if pressed beneath a low ceiling. They even smelled uncivilized, of old sweat