The Eighth King (The White Umbrella Testament Book 1) Read online

  Each glittering word seemed to cut into Tenshing’s consciousness, each cut bleeding out his resolve. He forced his thoughts into their customary channels, ragged though they were. “And whence this magnanimity?” he asked, the hoarseness of his voice giving the lie to the question’s lightness.

  “I want the King of Uä to deliver me from the talons of the Priestkiller Worm,” Tong said. “The throne is yours. Let the one who seeks it prove he merits it, and tend your own garden in the meanwhile. For all our sakes.”

  Any adequately schooled citizen of the realm will, of course, have read the Thousand Arm Deity’s rendition of this scene, but in rather a different form—and, in filling in the lacunae left by my colleague, I find myself tempted to describe Tenshing’s response to Tong’s invitation in terms conventionally left for the reader’s imagination. I hope the inclination can be understood. My own testament has taken rather an informal approach, omitting some of the stylizations that make epic of event and myth of history, and this restoration of texture unavoidably (and purposely) deflates the personalities that history has elevated to archetype. With this as one’s project, how can we fail to be tempted by a further level of detail? But, having raised the prospect, I hope it can be equally well understood why the temptation must be resisted. The goal of this commentary has been to humanize the superhuman; it would be a step too far to abase the humanity here rendered by dwelling on its animal nature. And thus we content ourselves with saying that, much as we tear ourselves half-regretfully away from describing his animal responses, Tenshing himself more than half-regretfully eschewed animality in his rejoinder to Tong’s offer, saying only, “I fear I must decline on all counts.”

  “Very well,” said Tong, “if my flesh so repels you now, you need not avail yourself of it—”

  “You know you are the opposite of repellent,” said Tenshing. “A King cannot so single-mindedly act in his own interests, Tong. He must at least consider the interests of those who have no power to advance them.”

  “Yes, in my experience, Kings are always keenly aware of the least they can do,” said Tong.

  “Another word for such things is ‘obligations.’”

  Tong curled her lip. “Please, Your Grace, explicate this unusual notion that anyone could oblige the King of Uä to do anything.”

  “You speak freely enough of my obligations to my people when it suits you,” said Tenshing. “In any case, you are a member of the most potent fighting society to walk the Rafters of the World, and some of your brothers fight for the Rough-Hewn Torch. I invite you to petition them with your preference.”

  “My ‘preference,’ as you call it, has nothing to do with the merits of the factions at play here—”

  “Factions?” Tenshing could not help but interrupt.

  “Oh, leave off such womanish expostulations,” said Tong. “You cannot have it both ways. If you doubt the divine endorsement of your reign, then your side is a faction as surely as either side in any ducal spat or border skirmish. And if you do not doubt it, then live your certainty. That is my ‘preference,’ Your Grace King Tenshing Astama. I wish to see the man I know act the King I know he is.” Her lip curled. “Have no fear, though, I hold out no great hope for satisfaction.”

  “You Green Morning brothers hold our war-Kings in too high esteem,” said Tenshing. “Red Tenshing my ancestor was drenched with merit, to be sure, but some of the wounds he rent in our land have not healed to this day, and he had no Worm to face.”

  “A predictable enough assertion,” said Tong, “from a man who seems intent on becoming Red Tenshing’s son.”

  “I know that Magnanimous Tenshing’s style is popularly held an insult,” said Tenshing, “especially by fighting-men, who love to pillory him for making concessions when he could have fought.” He shrugged. “I have always been proud to be his descendant.”

  “I leave you to your magnanimity, then. May Uä survive it.”

  Tong left his sight. He did not hear the door close.

  Lin Tong’s views on politics and war may, of course, be questioned, but it soon became apparent that her grasp of time was impeccable; the sun had moved on from the Dawn Courtyard and was beginning to pull away from the Pavilion of Midmorning by the time Tenshing left the Kings’ Archive. The resultant compression of the day’s events left him no time even to think on the matter of the last petitioner. He was only reminded of her when the historian came upon him on the way from the commode. Even with the finest moral education conceived or inculcated by man, it was all Tenshing could do not to swear like one of the river-sailors who work the barges between Degyen and the River, who take a religious oath that excludes all forms of speech save those uttered at the zenith of emotion. “How fares the petitioner?” he asked instead, walking briskly toward the war room called the Crane’s Eye Chamber.

  “Equably enough, Your Grace,” said the historian. “We conscientiously offer her food and drink, which she has thus far refused, though to no evident physical detriment. She seems content to drink weak tea, peruse the Red Vision, and ask trivial personal questions of the staff.”

  “Please convey my apologies,” said Tenshing. “And make it clear that the offers of food and drink are no test or trick. Some of the bondsmen harbor strange and cruel misconceptions about palace etiquette.”

  “I shall,” said the historian.

  At this juncture, Tenshing expected him to leave, but the historian continued with him toward the Crane’s Eye Chamber. “Is there aught else, freeman?” Tenshing asked after a few steps taken in strange silence.

  “Oh, I have business in this direction, Your Grace,” said the historian.

  “In the war room? What manner of historian are you?”

  “Military, as it happens, Your Grace,” the historian said smoothly. “But I would not venture to impose a consultation on the royal strategists. I merely have a message for General Gyaltsen.”

  “Ah,” said Tenshing. “Gyaltsen never seems to be without correspondence from one quarter or another. Tell me, freeman, what is your view of the maneuver known as the Gardener’s Ring?”

  The historian paused, as though to sound out the King’s own views before he spoke. “Historically,” he said with some caution, “the maneuver fails more often than it succeeds.”

  “I know this,” said Tenshing. “But imagine the following modification: The enemy’s forces are drawn to concentrate on a point of high ground.”

  “Disaster,” said the historian. “A downhill charge could shatter the Ring at any of a half dozen critical junctures, as the Emerald Badger showed in the campaign for Shrastaka under Tenshing Silverhand, and as the General himself not long ago demonstrated against the Tanggang insurgency.”

  “What if the terrain prevented a downhill charge? Imagine, for example, it were densely studded with rocks of varying sizes.”

  “The Hill of Faces?” The historian was silent for several steps. “It is an unprecedented variation. If the general were subtle, and could disguise the maneuver, the terrain would work in his favor in that case. By such a general, it might be done.”

  “And from a historian’s perspective, is Gyaltsen such a general?”

  “From this historian’s perspective, he may be the only such general.”

  “Well,” said Tenshing, “I shall consider your opinion as we discuss tactics. Gyaltsen is too much an artist sometimes; it is not beyond him to propose a maneuver purely for the challenge.”

  “Oh, I know it,” the historian said, softly enough that Tenshing suspected he was not meant to hear. At Tenshing’s scrutiny, though, he smiled and shrugged. “I have studied his body of work in some detail.”

  “An oeuvre of some strength and beauty, I am told,” said the King.

  The historian looked at him inquiringly.

  “Have I said something odd, freeman?” Tenshing asked.

  “The opposite,” murmured the historian. “But we have gained the Crane’s Eye Chamber, Your Grace, and I must to my own dutie
s.”

  The aide that had trailed Tenshing to and from the commode scuttled to open the door of the war room, and the historian made a smooth abasement and averted his eyes until Tenshing entered.

  He came upon a dispute, but not of the sort he had expected. His second daughter, Kadzati, had entered with her nanny, and the two were engaged in an exchange of furious whispers that no one in the room could fail to hear. “You are not to annoy the General!” the nanny hissed.

  “He said I could visit him any time!”

  “He was being kind, not truthful. The General is a busy man, and it is dangerous to be near him. We’ll say hello to your father and then leave.”

  “I want to talk to Gyaltsen!”

  Tenshing looked over the table at the general, who was engaged in a testy conversation with the Master of Horse. Gyaltsen looked back over the table, shrugged, and nearly whispered: “Disputes within the Orchid Palace are outside my jurisdiction, Your Grace, unless an enemy army is involved.”

  “You’ll have to speak louder than that,” the Master of Horse said irritably, but Tenshing shook his head. “I comprehend the General’s message, Lobsen, and commend him on his restraint.”

  As soon as Tenshing spoke, the nanny turned and abased herself (joined, in less elaborate abasements, by Gyaltsen and the mandarins present), and Kadzati launched herself at him, hugging him around the waist and pressing her face unselfconsciously just above his genitals. “Daddy,” she said, “Gyaltsen promised me a strategy lesson.”

  “I’m not sure Gyaltsen’s particular advice on this matter would be useful to you,” said Tenshing.

  “He says he’ll promote me to colonel right away if I join up.”

  Tenshing looked at Gyaltsen; the general shrugged. “Even if you made general,” said Tenshing, “Gyaltsen’s advice would have little to do with you unless you became commander of the entire army of the realm, and were bequeathed the Cerulean Sword.”

  “Well,” said Gyaltsen, “in fairness, I am acquainted with more mundane forms of strategy—”

  “Naturally,” said Tenshing. “But you have practiced so long with the sword that it has become a part of you; you naturally think of engagements in terms of its power.”

  “You would not have much use for me if I did not.”

  “Of course. But it does render your experience less useful in shaping your advice.” Tenshing cast a glance back toward the door. “Though I believe one military historian, at any rate, would trust your judgment regardless.”

  Gyaltsen looked back and saw the historian. “Ah,” he said. “Excuse me, Your Grace.” He came over to Kadzati and knelt, his eyes at the level of the girl’s. “You and I will speak of strategy when next the Crane’s Eye Chamber is available.” He laid his thick fingers gently on her cheek, then made a swift abasement to the King and excused himself.

  Kadzati looked back up at Tenshing. “How do I become commander of the army of the realm?”

  Tenshing chuckled. “The first step is ensuring that the Cerulean Sword will accept you as its master. It does not care for everyone, you know. Then, if it will accept you, you must stay near its current master, so that he might transfer it to you when the time is at hand. The sword is too dangerous to be left without a master.”

  “It cares for me,” said Kadzati. “Gyaltsen let me touch the pommel. It purred!”

  It was, perhaps, fortunate for General, whom the Thousand Arm Deity names “History’s choirmaster, scholar of steel,” that he had by this time absented himself from the chamber. “That is lucky indeed,” Tenshing said, laying a palm on his daughter’s head; and, reluctantly, he turned back to the dispute with the Master of Horse from which necessity had, for a few golden moments, preserved him.

  The matter of the Gardener’s Ring finalized, Tenshing took his meal in Mother-of-Daughters’ boudoir, where five of their daughters joined them—only Sonam was absent, pleading the urgency of understanding the principles of geometry. Tenshing spent some time arraying toy soldiers in battle formations with Kadzati, commenting on the drawings of Lhami and Akara, and adjudicating disputes among animal dolls with Tara and Tsetsen. After a brief but happy interval, the nannies intervened to enforce a healthy curfew, and the King and senior Queen were left alone.

  “Well, Your Grace,” said Mother-of-Daughters when the boudoir door had closed, “what seems to be the trouble?”

  Tenshing looked at her a moment, affecting innocence—and then, seeing the skepticism on her face, looked down and shook his head with a rueful smile. “I cannot mislead you, wife, any more than I could on our wedding night. But my troubles are not ones of which you like to speak.”

  “I do not like to speak on any matter that troubles my husband,” said Mother-of-Daughters. “But that has no bearing on matters of necessity. Come,” she said, “you cannot unsay your words now, any more than I can forget what I have apprehended. How does the boxer trouble you?” That was her name for Lin Tong—“the boxer”—which she had chosen only after suggesting numerous less civil alternatives.

  Tenshing briefly considered further protest, but in truth there was nothing to be done; he did want to talk and now, knowing his subject, so did she. He told her of the encounter in the Kings’ Archive, omitting only Tong’s mention of his earlier proposition in the Orchid Chamber.

  “Well,” Mother-of-Daughters said coolly when he had finished, “I cannot advise you as to whether to accept her proposition—you are more familiar with her charms than I—”

  “Come,” said Tenshing. “I would not have her on those terms, and you know it. But has my distaste for the terms masked the merit of her reasons? There is an edge to her argument, it cannot be denied.”

  “Of course,” said Mother-of-Daughters. “The Green Morning disdains anything without an edge. But their methods are not suited for all things. What Tenshing would you be, husband? To the boxer, you scorned Red Tenshing and praised his son, but I know you know Magnanimous Tenshing’s flaws better than that. What style would you have from history?”

  “Until the Rough-Hewn Torch darkened my door, I thought I had two choices: Tenshing Wormslayer or Failed Tenshing. Now it seems there is a third option. False Tenshing.”

  “Tenshing the Excellent Regent,” said Mother-of-Daughters. “Tenshing who well stewarded the throne.”

  “Tenshing who shied from death.” The King shook his head. “Six seasons old, and Tsetsen barely knows me. The sons are already forming factions, Seba’s against Kamala’s, and I cannot seem to stop it. The Lama says Kamala will have twins, do you know it? If they are boys—”

  “Then only one remains,” said Mother-of-Daughters. “I know how many sons you have, even if I will never make one for you.”

  “It would be sweet to remove their cause for plotting,” said Tenshing. “To be known by my baby girl. Or my eldest, for that matter.”

  “Men named Tenshing do not trust sweetness.”

  “Yet we let it lure us nonetheless. We are as obliging as any bee, it seems.” He shook his head. “I should not impute my own flaws to my ancestors.”

  “Your flaws are not at issue here,” said Mother-of-Daughters. “I will never love the boxer, husband, but I do not blame you for seeking her out. Have I not made that clear?”

  Tenshing was silent for a few moments. “You have, at that,” he said at last. “Somehow I find I believe you more readily now.” He shook his head. “But I am owed no forgiveness. I was gripped by an illusion. How could I look upon my first wife, the mother of my first child, and find her history ugly? How could I stand in judgment on a young woman when I, less young than she, made errors that cost my kingdom life and treasure? The hypocrisy yet rankles.”

  “Listen to yourself,” said Mother-of-Daughters. “You worry that sweetness will seduce you away from reason. My worry is the opposite—that you will find ruin in fleeing, not pursuing, your desires.”

  Tenshing smiled. “Then you do not counsel me to fight at all costs for the throne?”

  �
�I counsel you to fight for it if you believe it yours,” said Mother-of-Daughters, “and let it go if you believe it someone else’s.”

  “That is my counsel to myself,” said Tenshing. “From you, I had hoped for less conditional guidance.”

  “Thus, I guide you, then,” said Mother-of-Daughters. “Sustain your study until you have learned what you wish to know. Visit Tsetsen every night, even for a minute, or have her brought to you if you cannot go to her. Tell your sons the story of Eshō, and tell them again until they understand. And when your wife offers you something sweet, do not refuse her, whatever your name may be.”

  “Ah,” said Tenshing. “Wise counsel. Is something sweet on offer?”

  Mother-of-Daughters shook her head. “Not this night. My forgiveness is not yet complete.”

  And they shared a gaze, and Tenshing saw that his proposition to Tong in the Orchid Chamber had not gone entirely unapprehended. But he stayed and spoke of inconsequential things, and Mother-of-Daughters did not seem to mind.

  A few farewells

  t was Netten who answered the knock at the door of the rowhouse; what brought Datang downstairs was the silence after the squeak of the hinges, so profound that she picked up her straight sword before making her way down the narrow stairs. She thought she would find him collapsed, dead or worse; but he stood perfectly straight before the caller, whom Datang needed a moment to recognize. It was Hariti, the woman she had met the night before at the noodle house.