General Yu doesn’t look round. “The Hannos,” he answers distractedly. Something flickers across his face, gone too quickly for me to interpret.
I’ve heard of the Hannos from my father and Tien, though with none of the warmth in their voices as when they’d spoken of the Cat Clan. The largest Paper caste clan in Ikhara, the Hannos are one of the Demon King’s most prominent supporters. When it comes to Paper clans, one of his only supporters.
So why were two of their men talking with one of the King’s main opponents?
We ride on, day slipping into night as a steady rain claims the land. Hour after hour, the number of travelers drops away. I stare out the window. A moonless sky hangs vast and heavy over the plains. The air is cool, and with the rain the darkness is complete, viscous, like I could dive right into it. An image comes to me of one of the sky gods: Zhokka, Harbinger of Night. How he’d extend his hand to catch me as I fell toward him, a grin of swallowed starlight widening across his face.
“Eat,” commands General Yu suddenly, snapping me from my dark imagining. He hands me a leather flask and a package wrapped in a pandan leaf. “I don’t want you fainting from hunger during your inspection at the palace.”
I take a grateful bite of the fragrant sticky rice inside, the spices warming my belly. “The magic on this carriage,” I begin between chews. I risk a glance at the General. “Was it cast by the royal shamans?”
“Our little village girl has heard of them, huh?”
“Everyone in Ikhara has heard of them.”
He grunts. “I suppose. But the way some in the royal palace revere them, as if they are gods… even the Demon King himself acts as though their powers are holy,” he adds with a snort.
My brow furrows at the General’s dismissal. The royal shamans hold legendary status across Ikhara. Like the Paper Girls, they’re a feature of the Hidden Palace whose mystery has been cloaked with layers of gossip and superstition. The story goes that when the Demon King created the Hidden Palace, he ordered his architects to design an impenetrable fortress. His architects told him there could be no such thing—and so the King had them executed. Their replacements were more careful. After many discussions, they suggested a constant dao to be woven into the perimeter wall. No single shaman could do this, but a group of them, constantly at work, might be capable.
Shamans combining power isn’t unheard of, but it’s usually only a small group working on behalf of a clan or an army, a temporary arrangement. What the King’s advisers suggested was a permanent one. A large group taking turns to craft the magic that would live within the palace walls.
“Is it true there’re over a thousand shamans in the royal guard?” I ask.
“A thousand? That is nothing, girl. There are many thousand. Which is why I didn’t understand—”
The General stops abruptly.
“Didn’t understand what?” I prompt.
With a jerky movement, he gestures to the scar splitting his face. It would be an ugly face even without the scar: the wide, flat bull’s nose, too large between narrow cheekbones; the heavy-set lower jaw. But the scar twists it into a macabre mask, less demon than monster.
“I received this recently in a battle in Jana,” the General scowls, glaring stonily ahead. “I asked the King’s permission for one of the royal shamans to heal it, but… he refused. He told me that battle scars are a badge of honor. Of power. That to want to rid myself of one is a sign of weakness. You can imagine the King’s reaction when I pointed out that he himself has often used magic on his own scars.” A muscle twitches in his neck. “It’s not often I am so foolish. I was lucky he only demoted me.”
I get a sudden flare of empathy for General Yu—which disappears in an instant as he traces a calloused finger along my cheek.
“That’s where you come in.”
I draw back. “What do you mean?”
“It’s true you are no classic beauty,” he muses, looking over me. “You lack the elegance of girls who have grown up in the affluent societal circles. And yet… those eyes. It might just be enough to stir the King’s interest.” He pauses, expression darkening. “At least, let us hope so. The chosen girls will be arriving at the palace tonight. We’ll have to be careful about how we approach Mistress Eira and Madam Himura about you.”
I blink. “The selection process is already over?”
“Weeks ago.”
“Then, what am I here for?” My voice rises. “What happens if they don’t want me?” I grip the edge of the bench, pitching forward. “If they don’t, can I go back home—”
“Of course not,” the General cuts in. “And you will make sure they want you. I need to get back into the King’s favor after the incident with my scar. Sith heard rumors of a human girl with eyes the color of gold, but I didn’t quite believe it until I saw you.” There’s a challenge in his gaze. “Tell me, girl, do you have what it takes to win over the court?”
Anger hardens inside me. So that’s what he’s bringing me to the palace for? A bargaining chip?
“I don’t want to win over the court,” I retort.
Nostrils flaring, General Yu seizes my throat. “You are going to try,” he snarls, “and you are going to succeed! Or else your family—what pitiful part that’s left of it—will be punished. Make no mistake, keeda.” He grasps my wrists and yanks them up to my face, fingers digging into my skin. “Their blood will be here. Do you understand me? On your hands.”
His words chill me. I wrench away from him, shaking, as horror slinks in an ice-cold flood down my veins.
The General laughs. “You think you’re above this. I can see that. But believe me, girl, you are not. Because once you find out what happens to paper gone rotten—when you see what they do to whores who won’t play along—you will beg the palace to keep you.” His eyes glide past me, to the window. “We’re here.”
I whip round. Outside, willowy stalks of bamboo trees are flashing past, an ivory-green blur. Eerie sounds fill the forest—the song of owls, rain dripping on leaves, distant calls from animals hidden in the dark. The air is loamy with the smell of wet earth. After hours of empty plains, the closeness of the trees startles me. We’re passing through them impossibly fast, and even though there’s the snap and sweep of leaves on the carriage’s exterior, the noise is muffled. More magic.
“The great Bamboo Forest of Han,” the General announces, pride in his voice. “Part of the palace’s defenses. Too dense to enter on animal-back, too difficult for an army to traverse. It would take days to tear down a path. Visitors and traders must obtain the correct permits to be granted the daos from the royal shamans that open up this hidden road.”
I watch the trees whip past, my eyes wide. After a few minutes, the carriage slows. The horses drop to a canter, then a trot, as the forest opens, and I reel back, eyes even wider than before.
The Hidden Palace of Han.
Fortress of the Demon King.
Black rock as dark as night; walls so high they eclipse the moon. The perimeter of the palace rears up from the earth like some kind of giant stone monster. Far above, the tiny figures of guards pace the parapet. The walls have an unearthly shimmer about them, and as we draw closer, I notice millions of glowing characters ingrained in the marbled stone, swirling and spinning off one another beneath the rain-slicked surface. The low hum of chanting vibrates through the air.