Epigraph

  “How many times would he have to waken, until he was as conscious as a man could be? A dozen? A hundred? Or did it go on forever, this rousing of the spirit, the skins of his slumbers stripped away only to uncover another dream, and another?”

  —Clive Barker, Sacrament

  “The mind can only repose upon the stability of truth.”

  —Dr. Samuel Johnson, Preface to Shakespeare

  Volume 4

  The Jade Throne Calls

  Prologue

  Year: 547 I.A. (5 years before The Battle of Fates)

  Quen Yu

  The Dominion of Eternal Watching was, by the standards of most Royal Houses, a modest affair. It overlooked the shanty port-town of Xi’ten and the Emerald Sea like an overzealous guard dog. Its grey walls and buttresses, sculpted from huge blocks of granite—hauled from Wuzin during the time of the Serpent Wars—partly resembled the muscular shoulders of a squat dog. Hackles raised. Growling its displeasure and distrust of the world.

  Quen Yu Jin despised the building as much as he despised dogs. Dogs were filthy animals who brought their reek wherever they went. They were good for nothing but eating, and even then, their taste was crass.

  Compared with the grand palaces of the southern Dominions, the Dominion of Eternal Watching was but a hovel. Nothing more than a glorified military outpost. It was emblematic of his fallen state. In the eyes of the Great Mother, the Jade Empress, he knew he was the least of his siblings. Qala—wretched Qala—was the one who commanded Mother’s favour.

  Night mantled the building as he approached on foot, the stars hugging its upper battlements and squat turrets. Soldiers bearing the spear-tipped banners of the Jade Lotus patrolled its walls, their eyes vigilant gemstones in the dark. Despite the fact he wore a cloak of Imperial workmanship, and was accompanied by a retinue of soldiers, he was still challenged at the gate. An irksome humiliation.

  “I am Quen Yu!” he proclaimed, but his proclamation died against the silence of the walls.

  He waited, his boots sinking into the slick mud that surrounded the Dominion like a moat of sewage. He wondered whether his mother could even remember the smell of mud, sealed as she was at the heart of the vast labyrinth of Eternal Dream for nearly three centuries. It was a terrible fate, in some ways. And yet, it was all he aspired to.

  After an age, the gate creaked open. There was his brother, opening his arms in greeting, his yellow silk robes loose about his corpulent frame. He bore the stylised goatee of a court official, and the smile of a reptile. Quen Yu wore his own false smile and stepped forward to greet his brother. Formal bows were exchanged. There was no embrace. That was for commoners.

  “I trust your journey here was pleasant, dearest Quen Yu?” Jan Jin was a master of small, meaningless talk. Quen Yu was certain he could kill people with the sheer banality of his words. “It pleases me greatly that you shall be inheriting this mighty estate.”

  I’m sure it does, Quen Yu thought coolly. You have risen in my mother’s estimations, where I decline.

  But no one in Qi’shath spoke their feelings directly. To do so was social and sometimes literal suicide. There was a saying in this country: “The man who is first to declare what he knows is first to lose all knowledge”. The euphemistic implication eluded Yarulians and Aurelians, who were easier to read than picture-books given to children, and knew nothing of the subtlety of Qi’shath.

  “My dearest brother, my heart fills with immutable joy to inherit a Dominion you have so carefully cultivated,” Quen Yu said, noticing that the walls had not been scrubbed of their sea-moss, that the roadways leading to the separate manors of the Dominion were unswept, and the servants looked gaunt and underfed. They bowed as the two brothers sauntered past. Misery lived in their eyes.

  Jan Jin laughed heartily, barely concealing his mockery. There was little Quen Yu could do or say. Were he to abandon the post, his mother would soon hear of it, and he would be chased out of Qi’shath like a rabid dog. That thought was intolerable. He hated Qi’shath, and he hated his birthright. He hated a great many things. But Quen Yu was possessive with his hatred. Qi’shath was his to hate. He would not be removed from it, any more than a stubborn plague be removed from its victim.

  “We will feast tonight in celebration,” Jan Jin said. “The cooks have prepared the finest delicacies for you.”

  There was his wicked little smile again. Jan Jin was enjoying himself far too much.

  They reached the central building within the walls of the Dominion, a three-tiered tower block carved out of Qi’shathian ebony, each story adorned with a sloping roof, crimson tilework gleaming like the scales of a dragon. They passed through an archway into a foyer pretending it was larger than it was, its walls hung with gaudy tapestries, one depicting the legendary conflict between Xi Bey and Li Zhong, half-brothers who had vied for the Jade Throne, whose conflict had torn Qi’shath asunder. The divide between north and south was still felt to this day, more than a thousand years since their feud.

  “The dining room is upstairs,” Jan Jin said, as a pretty maid removed his outer silken robe, revealing the inner one, a vibrant shade of orange, like flame transmuted into silk. As the maid turned to take the outer robe to some cloakroom, Jan Jin slapped her behind and let out a haughty guffaw.

  Quen Yu did not react. He was not disgusted by his brother’s behaviour because he knew that Jan Jin only performed the role of the lecherous buffoon to deceive his enemies into thinking he was stupider than he was. Within, he was just as calculating as any of the line of Jin. All three siblings wanted the throne. All three siblings knew the chances of success were slimmer than a thread of silk. But the prize was too great to be passed over.

  Quen Yu’s outer robe was also removed. Jan Jin blanched when he saw what was emblazoned across Quen Yu’s inner robe. For a moment, the portly idiot vanished, and eyes of hard malice glinted in their sockets, trying to decipher what Quen Yu was up to.

  Quen Yu smiled.

  His robe was of the blackest silk, dyed seven times—ostensibly in accordance with the Seven Gates of the Immutable Way, but more truly in accordance with the Seven Gates of the Palace of Eternal Dream, the way that led to the Jade Throne, the throne that would one day be his. Spreading its long wings across the vast, night-black landscape of the robe was a pearl-white Jubjub bird. The hideous, blade-mouthed bird leered as it flew, its radiant yellow eyes seeming to scour anyone who dared to meet its gaze. They were eyes of madness. There was bloody flesh in its beak.

  Quen Yu was born under the Manse of the Jubjub Bird, the most opprobrious constellation of all the thirteen Sidereal Manses. In the West, there were only twelve Manses. But in Qi’shath they had added one more, dedicated to the most nauseating of all creatures.

  Qala, of course, had been born under the Monoceros—the unstoppable beast that bestrode the world, its mighty horn uprist. Jan Jin was born under the Scorpion. Both were signs deemed fitting for prospective rulers and heirs.

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  Quen Yu’s birth-sign, on the other hand, had been a point of mockery for most of his life, for in Qi’shath astrology was also religion. The Jubjub bird was considered ill-Fated, for it was a creature that preyed upon human beings, that procreated in nests of its own shit, and was frequently documented committing acts of hideous necrophilia. Legends said that the souls of Daimons, having been driven out of their bodies by the wrath of the gods, had fled into the Jubjub birds, hence their mercurial natures and bloodthirsty appetites. They were a plague upon Qi’shath, a loathsome emblem of nuisance, predation, and degradation.

  Quen Yu had not chosen this symbol. It had been given to him by the hour of his birth. He had resented it his whole life. But when his mother had stripped him of his former Dominion and sent him north, he’d realised that the time had come for him to embrace what he was. If he could not be loved, he would be reviled. If he could not be favoured, he would be infamous.

  They mocked the Jubjub bird because they feared it, after all.

  His inner robe was of a gauche styling, antithetical to the subtle fashions of Qi’shath. It was the visual equivalent of a black powder bomb, and he’d known beforehand the shockwave it would case.

  Jan Jin stood speechless.

  “My, dear brother,” Quen Yu said. “It is most unusual for the Scorpion to lack his sting. You must have been without a sparring partner for many moons, marooned in these northern climes.”

  Jan Jin showed teeth for the barest flicker before concealing his wrath and bowing—an acknowledgement that Quen Yu had won the social altercation this time round. It was the only way for him to save face.

  “Indeed. My mind grows soft with the northerner’s love of Daimonwine—accursed import!” He covered his shame with bluster. “I long for the delicate ricewines of the south! But come, you are not opposed to sharing some of the Aurelian vintage with me?”

  It would be rude to decline, so Quen Yu bowed his agreement. The two were led to a set of stairs by a team of servants. Their soldiers trundled along behind them, giving no indication of requiring sustenance or rest, as alert as though they walked the blackened streets of some nameless gutter town. Such was the way of the Qi’shathian military. Qi’shathian soldiers were trained from childhood to master the needs of the flesh. Their greatest weapon was the spirit of their resilience.

  And even in this fortress, there was no guarantee of safety. The number of siblings who had murdered one another in the annals of Qi’shathian history were legion, as were the number of assassinations that’d taken place within the strongest fortifications. Neither Quen Yu nor Jan Jin could afford to release their bodyguards, not even while they slept. The soldiers would dine with them, though at another table, behind the thinnest veil of ricepaper, and they would eat in shifts so that some were ready at all times to act.

  The dining hall was likewise a parody of opulence. The low table, meant for sitting at cross-legged, was wrought of dark ebony and stretched long enough to seat maybe a hundred diners. The wall of ricepaper that separated nobles from serfs was daubed with inked designs, depicting animals symbolic of the Great Rulers of Qi’shath. The last was a great invincible Serpent constellated in the heavens—paradoxically immutable and unchanging as the stars and yet able to shed its skin and be born anew. This was the emblem of the Jade Empress, and the Sidereal Manse under which she was born.

  Qi’shathian lamps hung from the ceilings, casting the room in an orange glow. The walls were adorned with ceremonial weaponry and lesser known artworks by painters of the Shadow-Eye Dynasty. Despite the faux opulence of gold-filigreed cups and bowls, the cold drafts that filtered through one broken shutter, and the disrepair of the wallpaper, indicated the true state of affairs here.

  They sat near the end of the table, Jan Jin at the head—as was proper given he was host—and Quen Yu to his right, the position of second highest authority. Jan Jin clapped his hands and serving women bowed and departed to obtain drinks for them. The banquet would be long and tedious, a trial of endurance and manners.

  “Xi’ten is not so bad, brother,” Jan Jin said, and for once he sounded moderately sincere. Perhaps Quen Yu’s surprise had rattled Jan Jin out of his superiority complex. Perhaps he was more relaxed now that they were engaging in Jan Jin’s favoured pastime: eating and drinking. Or perhaps this, too, was a ruse. Quen Yu dare not let his guard down for an instant, but he bowed.

  “Tell me of it, dear Jan Jin.”

  And his brother did, in gallingly exhaustive detail. Quen Yu listened, however, because he knew a midst the sundry irrelevancies and trifles, there would be nuggets of information worthy of perusal, unseen advantages that could be exploited. He kept his face neutral on every point, nodding along like an interested tourist, all the while taking note of Jan Jin’s mention of the high theront population, and the limestone bluffs that framed Xi’ten’s bay.

  They had finished their first course—shrimps—and had imbibed their first bottle of Daimonwine when a delicate, high bell rang and a woman entered. Quen Yu knew, purely by her garment, that this must be Jan Jin’s wife. But he had never seen her before.

  She was an extraordinary beauty. Unusually pale, with obsidian eyes, and lustrous hair falling down one side of her face, almost to the waist. She wore a robe of pale yellow detailed with floral patterns, and moved with the elegance of one born to nobility.

  She bowed twice to each of them and came to sit at Jan Jin’s left.

  “My wife, Mila,” Jan Jin said. He grinned foppishly at Quen Yu. Ah, so this is how you will drive the knife in once again. All the chatter was merely lulling into a false sense of security so that he could begin his assault again. “Such a shame,” Jan Jin said, before Quen Yu could ever exchange a formal greeting with Mila. “What happened to yours.”

  Quen Yu could not stop his teeth from clenching, nor his hand tightening into a fist below the table. Rage travelled through him like the tides of sorcery. Then grief. He felt a glow in his palm, the wealth of power there cultivated over a lifetime of study and hard practice. Images flashed before his mind’s eye, accompanied by god-names. Images of flame and devastation, of flesh seared from the bone. The power yearned to be invoked, to be called.

  Jan Jin was smiling at him. An ordinary person would not have noticed anything amiss about his posture, but Quen Yu saw he was sitting too still, bracing himself for the magical attack he had provoked. Jan Jin was many things, but he was no slouch when it came it the magical arts. He would counter whatever Quen Yu threw at him. Quen Yu could sense his subtle, evasive summoning of power. It was like light playing in the periphery of his vision, yearning to coalesce, but if he tried to look at it directly, it snuffed out like a candle.

  Quen Yu sat back, and smiled. He thought of the Jubjub bird. Such creatures did not care for the insults hurled at them, for how their name was timelessly evoked in old Qi’shathian poems, synonymous with filth and decay and squalor and evil. They waited until their prey looked away, then eviscerated them with their rapier-like beaks. Jubjub birds did not fight fairly. They were more cunning than their ugly natures let on.

  So Quen Yu ignored his brother. He turned his eyes toward Mila, who was looking at the ground intently, clearly an unwilling participant in this charade. Weakness, Quen Yu thought. Never show the Jubjub bird you are afraid of it.

  “You are referring, of course, to my wife’s suicide,” Quen Yu said, coldly.

  Mila could not stop herself from raising her eyes, staring at Quen Yu in something betwixt awe and horror. He had violated so many codes of social conduct with that one, simple statement. The utterance of truth in Qi’shath was often tantamount to blasphemy.

  “Brother—!” Jan Jin hissed.

  “Come now, Jan Jin,” Quen Yu talked over him with a slow, deliberate drawl he had learned from Aurelian traders. They bamboozled their marks with their easy-going way of speech, giving them no opportunity to butt in. “It is a sensitive topic, but you have raised it, and it would do not good for Mila to be under any kind of false impression.” Quen Yu smiled at Mila, who was still staring at him as though he’d revealed himself to be from the planet Nilldoran. “I was having an affair, Mila. It is the talk of all the courts, and the reason that I was sent here. When my wife discovered it, she killed herself.” And the guilt haunts me still, he thought, but that he kept to himself, for it would be exploited as weakness. “A toast, then,” Quen Yu continued brightly. “In loving memory of Shia’sha. To her ghost. May it find peace beyond the Seventh Gate.” More likely she shall burn in Hell for violating the accord of life. Oh Shia’sha, how could you have been so stupid? But he knew this last question was really directed at himself. How could he have been so stupid? To stray from the Way. And with a Daimomancer… Oh, he had learned much from their trysts—too much—but the price had been heavy, a lodestone upon his immortal soul.

  Jan Jin and Mila both stood speechless. Then, slowly, each raised their glass to match Quen Yu. Etiquette dictated they accept his toast, no matter how much it disturbed them. All three drank, and Quen Yu barely tasted the spice of Daimonswine, for its aggression was no match for his constitution now. He had consumed much more than this diluted gimmick of commerce. He had drank from the fresh blood, snorted the power of bones… But hush these thoughts. There were many in Qi’shath who had made it their life’s study to read thoughts from faces, and his brother was one of them.

  “I am… sorry for your loss,” Mila stammered. Jan Jin looked at her sharply, but seemingly could find no fault with expressing such a sentiment. Quen Yu smiled. The woman had sounded sincere, bless her.

  “Well, if we are done discussing such shocking matters…” Jan Jin prompted, his expression more sour than next course—some pickled confection.

  “Ah, yes,” Quen Yu said. “Let us leave the past behind. Come, my brother, tell me again of Xi’ten, and the shithole I am inheriting.”