The current king ascended the throne of Joseon at the age of twenty-eight. To do so, he had to depose his uncle, though it was not customary to speak of that. Besides, the king himself had done little to aid the uprising. Most of the work had been carried out by the man who would later become Chief State Councilor Choi.

  Yi Yun was barely two years old at the time and remembered little of the move from the prince’s wealthy estate to the palace. He did not remember that his father had once lived with them, helping his mother put him to bed every evening. In the royal palace, the king and his wife were given separate quarters; moreover, a whole crowd of concubines appeared almost at once, and Yi Yun started to gain brothers and sisters one after another. By the time he turned five, his family was very large and not very harmonious.

  Perhaps the tension was not only because his father still hesitated to elevate his first wife — Yi Yun’s mother — to the rank of queen, but also because everyone was anxious about events in the north. The Ming Empire, Joseon’s longtime ally and “elder brother,” had for years been suffering attacks from the Manchus. Their khan had proclaimed himself emperor and sought to seize Ming lands and subjects. Joseon, of course, supported the enlightened Ming rather than those mad nomads. Yet the king was in no hurry to send troops north, waiting year after year for a more favorable moment.

  And then, when Yi Yun was five, the envoys arriving from the Ming emperor with pleas for aid finally received the long-awaited answer! The king of Joseon decided to come to Ming’s aid! The delighted Ming emperor sent him his own golden sword — a symbol of friendship and equality, a pledge of the inevitable victory of their united armies.

  Yi Yun remembered how his mother told him what a wondrous sword it was, and how he dreamed of sneaking into the throne hall to have a glimpse of it with his own eyes. They said the Jade Emperor himself had once gifted this sword to the first Ming emperor, and that fairies had forged it from sunbeams in the heavenly flowering gardens.

  Yi Yun counted the days until the miraculous sword would reach the capital, saw it in his dreams, and in his fantasies wielded it against hordes of faceless, fearsome nomads, sweeping away whole units with a single stroke.

  And then they stopped speaking of the sword.

  One day he tugged at his mother’s sleeve and asked when the emperor’s golden sword would finally arrive at the palace, but she only shook her head and told him to be silent. Yi Yun kept asking still, until at last his father’s senior eunuch bent down and whispered that Japanese wako pirates had attacked the envoys on the road.

  Everyone was killed, and the sword vanished.

  No one knew whether it had sunk to the bottom of the sea or been stolen and hidden by the raiders. For a whole month royal troops searched the mountains in vain, but found no trace of the sword.

  “Is that a bad omen?” the prince asked in dismay, his dream of seeing the golden sword shattered by foolish bandits.

  “A very bad one,” the eunuch clicked his tongue.

  And the Northern Campaign never took place. The royal troops stayed home, while the Ming Empire continued to yield and retreat under Manchu blows.

  Perhaps, had the young king of Joseon been bolder, he would have marched even without the golden sword and might have averted the collapse that followed. But what happened, happened. First the Manchus drove Ming soldiers away from Joseon’s northern border, and then they crossed it themselves. That same month Yi Yun gained yet another younger brother, named Hyun.

  Joseon was unprepared for such a sudden attack. While debating a campaign to the north, the king had not considered that the north might attack them instead. Riders with absurdly shaved foreheads and long braids took fortress after fortress, raced through villages, while ministers continued to deliberate on the best course of action in this unpleasant situation. When Manchu banners appeared near the capital, the king was forced to flee. Ministers, citizens, and even the royal family fell into the invaders’ hands.

  Yi Yun barely remembered that time, it was overwritten by later events and memories. Yet fragments sometimes returned, stirred by his mother’s stories or by hazy dreams.

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  The general commanding the Manchu banners occupied the palace and brazenly seated himself on his father’s golden throne, then ordered all the wives and children of the Joseon king to be assembled in the council hall. Yi Yun was curious to see the place where his father usually issued orders to ministers and he kept turning his head, while his mother was anxious and squeezed his hand until it hurt.

  “So this is the heir?” the Manchu general asked in a harsh, unfamiliar accent.

  “And who are you?” Yi Yun frowned. He disliked the stranger sitting on his father’s throne, but the conqueror’s gleaming helmet and mail fascinated him. Besides, the man was smiling and did not look frightening.

  “Come here,” the general noticed Yi Yun’s interest, removed his helmet, and set it on the steps before him. He looked very young; even Yi Yun could tell he was not yet a grown man, but an adolescent. And it was obvious why he was willing to share the marvelous shining armor. Boys always understood one another!

  Yi Yun wriggled free of his mother’s grip and ran up the steps. He wanted to touch the helmet at once, but remembered his manners and decided to introduce himself first.

  “My name is Yun. I am the king’s eldest son. And who are you?”

  “My name is Dorgon,” the other replied with a smile. “I am the emperor’s younger brother. You may try on the helmet, if you can lift it, Yun.”

  “Wow!” Yi Yun exclaimed and, bracing himself, tipped the helmet on its side. It was terribly heavy, lined inside with faded leather and smelled of old sweat, just like the guards’ boots.

  “Let me help,” Dorgon rose from the throne, crouched beside Yun, and lifted the helmet so he could slip his head inside. It was far too big and completely covered his eyes, of course. Yi Yun laughed.

  “What will happen to us?” He heard the voice of one of his father’s concubines, but he could not tell which.

  “Yun, I need your advice,” Dorgon, now sitting beside him on the top step, freed him from the helmet and looked at him seriously. “There are two brothers, elder and younger. The younger refused to respect the elder and spoke ill of him.”

  “That is bad,” Yi Yun drew his brows together, recalling his lessons. “One must honor elders, so says Cofnu… Confucius.”

  “I think so too,” Dorgon agreed. “So the elder brother came to punish the younger. But the younger fled in fear, and the elder found only an empty house.”

  “He should wait,” Yi Yun said confidently. “The younger brother will grow hungry and return.” He himself had once run away and hidden in the park, but when his stomach began to ache, he had to come back.

  Dorgon laughed.

  “A good plan. And what should the elder brother do with the wife and children of the younger, who remained in the house when he fled?”

  Then Yi Yun finally realized they were speaking of his father. It was unclear why Dorgon called him the younger brother, when the king was obviously older than the general.

  “Wait for him together?” he suggested. “They did not insult the elder brother, right? The little one cannot even speak yet, only cries sometimes.”

  Yi Yun pointed to one of his aunts — the one who had recently given birth to his little brother and was now holding the baby.

  “I agree,” Dorgon nodded, slapping his thighs as he stood. “The king of Joseon refused to show respect to the emperor of Great Qing and thus saddened his elder brother. The emperor sent me to resolve this misunderstanding and call the king of Joseon to account. The emperor and I share the same father. If the emperor calls the king of Joseon his brother, then he is my brother as well, and his family is my family. Therefore, dear sisters, live as you are accustomed and fear nothing. My warriors will protect you and the palace from looters.”

  Sighs of relief rippled through the silk-clad crowd.

  “And what of our servants?” his mother’s voice asked. “And the maids?”

  “Inside the palace they are in no danger, but I would advise them not to go outside,” Dorgon replied. Then he winked at Yi Yun and leaned closer. “Well? Did I say it right?”

  Yi Yun bit his lip, thinking. There had to be a trap — but where?

  “Invite them to supper,” he whispered. “And say that children may play as well.”

  He knew his mother well. Otherwise she would lock him in his room at once and forbid him even to go into the courtyard.

  “Good. Well done, thinking of the family,” Dorgon whispered back, agreeing, then straightened and swept the crowd with his gaze. “This evening I invite you to dine with me. I would like to meet those who will be under my protection. And the prince asked me to clarify: children are allowed to play within the palace. This is your home, and I am a guest and do not intend to change your customs.”

  ***

  On the second day the young commander in the shining helmet left the palace, leaving his warriors at the gates. A few days later he found the fugitive king and forced his surrender. They met on a raft in the middle of the river, and the king of Joseon had to bow nine times to the feet of a sixteen-year-old youth, begging imperial forgiveness.

  That humiliation left its mark.

  The Manchus accepted his assurances of loyalty, took tribute — the first of many — and withdrew, returning the palace and family to the king. But he then took to his bed with a crushing migraine and did not appear in public for two more months. And the Ming emperor lost his last ally, making the collapse of the enlightened empire inevitable.