I’m released outside the Sea God’s palace. Stumbling, I almost fall down the grand stairs. A loud groan signals the closing of the main gate. I scramble to my feet and throw my body against the doors as they shut with a resounding boom.
I pound my fists against thick wood. All I get for my efforts are bruised hands and a terrible ache in my chest. I slump to the ground, exhausted. My pulse throbs erratically, and I have to count my breaths to calm the wild beating of my heart.
I remain on the ground, dazed, for several minutes before I notice something has changed. The air is clear.
And then I hear it, a sound like laughter drifting through the wind. Slowly I get to my feet and turn. The mysterious fog has lifted, revealing the night.
Behind me, spread out like a painter’s canvas, is the Sea God’s city.
It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before—a labyrinth of buildings with curved rooftops and bowed bridges, scattered throughout like solid arcs of rainbow. Gold light shines from lanterns hung from three-story-high poles, like sails of ships caught on fire. There are more lanterns floating in the water, on the canal streets piercing through the city like branches of a magnificent, glowing tree.
Brightly colored fish swim along the breeze, as if the sky were an ocean. Whales like clouds float lazily overhead. And in the distance, the dragon slips through the air like a kite freed of the earth.
I’ve never seen anything more beautiful. I’ve never seen anything more terrifying.
The wonders of this city reveal an undeniable truth: I have entered a new world—a world of dragons, of gods with unfathomable powers, of assassins who move unseen through the shadows, where your voice can be transformed into a bird and then stolen, and where no one I love can ever reach me.
5
I’m too visible outside the palace where anyone—anything—can see me. However much I might dislike Shin, his words were a warning: Humans are vulnerable in a world of gods.
I stumble down the steps, body sore from the rough sea tossing and the perhaps even rougher wind tossing. I slip into the nearest alley and hunker down in the recess of a doorway. A paper lantern creaks atop the cracked wooden frame, the small candle inside casting baleful shadows on the walls. I’m behind a fish shop; the smell of day-old catch is unmistakable. If there are people about, I see no sign of them, and soon it’s impossible to see at all as tears begin to blur my vision.
I cry without sound, racking sobs that spread tremors throughout my body.
I know I need to be strong, like the heroines in my grandmother’s stories. But I am frustrated. I am exhausted. And, if Shin’s words are true, I am soulless. Strange, but it was easier to be brave when he was in front of me, when I was bolstered by my fury at him. It’s harder to be brave when by myself, cold and alone.
What am I supposed to do now?
I pull my legs to my chest and press my face to my knees. Desperately, I try to think of one of my grandmother’s many sayings, something wise to give me comfort and strength. But despair has its grip on me now, and it won’t let go. Only once before have I felt like this, as if the world had jumped ahead and left me behind.
It was the night of the paper boat festival. I was excited because Joon said we would sail our boats down the river together, as we had every year since I was old enough to go. I was kneeling on the riverbank, writing the final flourish of my wish onto the paper when I heard Joon’s voice.
“Shim Cheong might be the most beautiful girl in the village, but her face is a curse.”
It was the beginning of their story, a story I would play no part in, at least not for a while.
I stood at one end of the bridge as Joon followed Shim Cheong over to the other side. I remember staring at my brother as he walked away, willing him to look back—just one small wave to prove that I was still in his thoughts, that he hadn’t forgotten me. And when he didn’t, it felt like a premonition that things would never be the same again.
I was twelve years old, and I could feel the hours of our childhood slipping through my fingers like sand in the sea.
Later that night, my grandfather found me crying beside the pond in our garden. He settled himself on the grassy bank, his eyes on the blurry reflection of the moon on the water. The ducks appeared as if they were swimming across its pearly face. Neither of us said a word for a time. My grandfather understood the comfort there is in shared silence.
When I was ready to listen, he said, “In all my lifetime, I’ve never seen more wonderful creatures than ducks.” He paused to chuckle at the baffled expression on my face. “When ducks are born, they imprint on the first thing they see, usually their mother, and they will follow her quite determinedly until adulthood. Did you know this?”