stubborn bay that Yuso had bought along with his own mount to replace two of the three horses we had lost on the flooded slope. Only Kygo’s Ju-Long had survived the mud, the battle horse’s big heart and stamina overcoming the shock of the water.
We bumped across the cobbles toward the huge tunneled gate. Two sweating guards flanked each side, watching our approach. By their smirks, they must have heard Yuso’s conversation. At least their close scrutiny vindicated the hours that Yuso, Dela, and I had spent convincing Kygo that it was too dangerous for him to enter the city with us. Just the way he moved would have raised the guards’ interest, let alone the imperial cast of his features. He had finally agreed to ride out with Caido and his resistance troop and wait with them in the nearby hills until their part of the plan came into play.
Until a few hours ago, those heated discussions alongside Yuso and Dela had been the closest I’d come to Kygo in three days. He had not sought any time alone with me since the impasse in the strategy chamber, although I had often looked up during the final tactical meetings in the resistance camp to find his gaze fixed upon my face. He always looked away, leaving me stranded in half-smiles and uncertainty — I had no map of this new territory between us. On the hard journey to the city, he had stayed among Caido and his men. It was only at our parting on a deserted dirt track at the outskirts of the city that he finally called me over, away from the others.
He took my hand, and I felt the tension in his body as he pressed a small metal weight into my palm. It was the thick gold ring studded with red jade. His blood amulet.
“I want you to take this for protection from harm.” He closed my fingers around it. “My father had it made on my twelfth birthday,” he said. “It was forged with my blood, and the blood of my first kill, in honor of Bross.” He shifted his shoulders, as if feeling the touch of the man he had killed.
I opened my hand and looked down at the ring. Perhaps it was my fancy, but the gold did seem to have a pink hue. “Who was he?”
“A soldier who tried to assassinate Sethon. I executed him.” The irony of it edged his voice. “Take the traitor’s blood with you, Eona. And mine.” His eyes clouded. “Today is the last day of Rightful Claim.”
“Your uncle was never going to honor your claim. Never!” I said, as if my vehemence could shift the weight from his spirit.
He nodded. “Still, tomorrow I officially become a traitor. A rebel.” His thumb brushed the back of my hand. “Be careful, Eona.”
I watched him walk away, my hard grip on the ring pressing its edges into my flesh. The boundaries between us had shifted again, and I did not know where I stood. Only one landmark on our map felt fixed: the truth in our kiss.
Our cart rumbled into the cooler shade of the tunneled gate. One of the guards peered around the edge of the thick marble wall. “I’m saving up my pay, gorgeous,” he called, hot faced and grinning.
My fingers found the ring through the cloth of my gown, hidden from view on a long leather thong around my neck. I sent a prayer to Bross:
Then I leaned my shoulder against the top rail of the cart and played the wide-eyed newcomer, gawking at the heavy carvings on the inner walls. Most of them were the usual huge guardian door gods and symbols of prosperity, but there were also worn inscriptions in other languages. I was sure I had seen one of the strange left- to-right-running scripts at Ari the Foreigner’s coffee stall. As we broke out of the tunnel into the bright heat and the tumult of the old town, it occurred to me that the inscriptions had probably been left by ancient invaders. Perhaps we should etch our names into the stone, too — a foolhardy army of five trying to penetrate the Heavenly City.
I glanced at Ryko. He remained bent over his hands, but watched the passing stalls and shifting crowd from under his brow with an intensity that told me his blood was still high. After the quiet of the road, the calls of vendors, shrieks of children, and barking of dogs made me flinch. We were in the southwest Monkey Ward, the most squalid section of the city, and it was crawling with soldiers. I pulled back from the edge of the cart and drew my legs up under the curl of my arms, trying to make myself less visible. Vida dug her fingernails into her thighs, watching the bustle of the city from under the veil of her wild hair.
Along the narrow street, shredded red paper lamps from the New Year celebration still swung from crossbraces, and some shop-house doors displayed the long, red banners of New Year’s couplets hung to attract wealth and good fortune. They should have come down days ago in respect for the old emperor’s death. No doubt the merchants hoped the special wishes would help protect their businesses from Sethon’s soldiers.
A roar of male laughter rose above the clamor of hawker calls and shrill bargaining. I did not move my head but found the source at the edge of my sight. A large group of off-duty soldiers sprawled across the wooden benches of an oyster stew stall, shouting down a comrade’s joke. Although they took no notice of our slow progress, Ryko’s hands flexed against his bonds.
For a few lengths, a sesame cake vendor walked alongside us, beating a wooden tablet hung from the basket pole across his shoulders. The nutty sweetness of his wares filled the air and I swallowed a sudden rush of saliva; for two days I had only eaten salty dried road rations. He glanced across at me and, seeing no chance of a sale, hurried past, adding his raucous voice to his drum.
Behind us, Yuso’s horse sidled at the harsh sound, the captain holding the animal in check with firm knees and hands. I watched him manage the horse’s fear, soothing it back into submission. After the last few days in Yuso’s company, I had finally seen what prompted Ryko’s loyalty and Kygo’s respect. It was not only his command of tactical deception, although that had come to the fore as we planned this venture. It was also his concern for his men. On our last day at the resistance camp we had entombed Solly, and as we gathered for the death procession at dawn, Yuso had arrived carrying Tiron on his back. The injured guard was no lightweight, and both of his legs were splinted, but Yuso had borne him up to the hillside tomb to help send Solly to his ancestors. And that was not his only kindness. I saw him pass a small pouch to Tiron as we said our good-byes to the camp people. Later, when I asked him what he had given the young guard, he had eyed me in his usual dour manner and said, “If it is any of your business, my lady, I gave him the rest of my Sun Drug. Better that the boy not withdraw while his bones are mending. I can get more when we reach the city.”
“Get your head down,” he said now, through his teeth, as he eased the horse past me. Abashed, I obeyed. I had to remember my role.
He drew level with Dela. “Go over that bridge.” he ordered, pointing to the wooden arch across a narrow canal, “and then right. Got it?”
Dela nodded and prodded the bay into a trot. As we thudded over the bridge, I caught a glimpse of opaque brown water and the sleek arrow of a water rat cutting through the sluggish current.
We turned into a wide road, each side a jumble of open- front taverns and sprawling eateries clustered around fire pits. Cooks bent over hissing pans, and the fatty smoke of roast pork flavored the air, briefly overriding the stench of sun-warmed urine and rotting cabbage. A few calls and jeers from early patrons followed us as we headed toward the tall red gates of the Blossom World.
I had never been in the Pleasure Ward, although I had heard many stories about it from the other boys when I was a Dragoneye candidate. Mainly it had been whispers about strange contraptions and impossible positions, but one boy’s master had actually taken him inside the Blossom World. He had told us that every man who passed through the gates had to wear a mask and a disguise; it was the symbolic shedding of self, he’d said loftily, to become whoever you wanted to be, or to put down the burden of who you already were. For a night, farmers could be lords, and lords could be peasants. All men were equal, and no one was allowed to carry a weapon inside the gates. Except, he’d added with a knowing grin that made us lean closer, the infamous Sword Lilies, who practiced the art of pain.
“Greetings!” Yuso called to a gateman as we drew up to the ornate entrance. He dismounted and led the horse up to the neat annex that jutted from the towering wall.
The wooden gates — too high for a man or even a man on his friend’s shoulders to look over — were heavily carved with stylized flowers: peony, apple blossom, lily, and orchid. I searched the sinuous tangle of stems and leaves for the lewd figures that were supposed to be hidden among them. All I could see was the faint outline of a smaller door set into the left panel.
The gateman ambled out of his gatehouse and surveyed us. “Expected, or touting?” he asked.
“Mama Momo,” Yuso said. “Tell her Heron from Siroko Province is here.”
It was the code name that Kygo had given us. Mama Momo, it seemed, was more than just Queen of the Blossom World. If the code name failed, we had Ryko as backup: he had admitted he’d known her long ago, in
