River of Stars. Guy Gavriel Kay

Wenzong of Kitai

      Chizu, his son and heir

      Zhizeng (“Prince Jen”), his ninth son

      Hang Dejin, prime minister of Kitai

      Hang Hsien, his son

      Kai Zhen, deputy prime minister of Kitai

      Yu-lan, his wife

      Tan Ming, one of his concubines

      Wu Tong, a eunuch, Kai Zhen’s ally, a military commander

      Sun Shiwei, an assassin

       Elsewhere in Kitai

      Ren Yuan, a clerk in the western village of Shengdu

      Ren Daiyan, his younger son

      Wang Fuyin, sub-prefect in Shengdu

      Tuan Lung (“Teacher Tuan”), founder of an academy in Shengdu

      Zhao Ziji, a military officer

      Lin Kuo, a court gentleman

      Lin Shan, his daughter and only child

      Qi Wai, husband to Shan

      Xi Wengao (“Master Xi”), formerly prime minister, a historian

      Lu Chen, friend to Xi Wengao, a poet, exiled

      Lu Chao, Chen’s brother, also exiled

      Lu Mah, Chen’s son

      Shao Bian, a young woman in the Great River town of Chunyu

      Shao Pan, her younger brother

      Sima Peng, a woman in Gongzhu, a hamlet near the Great River

      Zhi-li, her daughter

      Ming Dun, a soldier

      Kang Junwen, a soldier, escapee from occupied lands

      Shenwei Huang, a military commander

       On the steppe

      Emperor Te-kuan of the Xiaolu

      Yao-kan, his cousin and principal adviser

      Yan’po, kaghan of the Altai tribe

      Wan’yen, war-leader of the Altai

      Bai’ji, Wan’yen’s brother

      Paiya, kaghan of the Khashin tribe

      O-Pang, kaghan of the Jeni tribe

      O-Yan, his youngest brother

PART ONE

      CHAPTER I

      Late autumn, early morning. It is cold, mist rising from the forest floor, sheathing the green bamboo trees in the grove, muffling sounds, hiding the Twelve Peaks to the east. The maple leaves on the way here are red and yellow on the ground, and falling. The temple bells from the edge of town seem distant when they ring, as if from another world.

      There are tigers in the forests, but they hunt at night, will not be hungry now, and this is a small grove. The villagers of Shengdu, though they fear them and the older ones make offerings to a tiger god at altars, still go into the woods by day when they need to, for firewood or to hunt, unless a man-eater is known to be about. At such times a primitive terror claims them all, and fields will go untilled, tea plants unharvested, until the beast is killed, which can take a great effort, and sometimes there are deaths.

      The boy was alone in the bamboo grove on a morning swaddled in fog, a wan, weak hint of sun pushing between leaves: light trying to declare itself, not quite there. He was swinging a bamboo sword he’d made, and he was angry.

      He’d been unhappy and aggrieved for two weeks now, having reasons entirely sufficient in his own mind, such as his life lying in ruins like a city sacked by barbarians.

      At the moment, however, because he was inclined towards thinking in certain ways, he was attempting to decide whether anger made him better or worse with the bamboo sword. And would it be different with his bow?

      The exercise he pursued here, one he’d invented for himself, was a test, training, discipline, not a child’s diversion (he wasn’t a child any more).

      As best he could tell, no one knew he came to this grove. His brother certainly didn’t, or he’d have followed to mock—and probably break the bamboo swords.

      The challenge he’d set himself involved spinning and wheeling at speed, swinging the too-long (and also too-light) bamboo weapon as hard as he could, downstrokes and thrusts—without touching any of the trees surrounding him in the mist.

      He’d been doing this for two years now, wearing out—or breaking—an uncountable number of wooden swords. They lay scattered around him. He left them on the uneven ground to increase the challenge. Terrain for any real combat would have such obstacles.

      The boy was big for his age, possibly too confident, and grimly, unshakably determined to be one of the great men of his time, restoring glory with his virtue to a diminished world.

      He was also the second son of a records clerk in the sub-prefecture town of Shengdu, at the western margin of the Kitan empire in its Twelfth Dynasty—which pretty much eliminated the possibility of such ambition coming to fulfillment in the world as they knew it.

      To this truth was now added the blunt, significant fact that the only teacher in their sub-prefecture had closed his private school, the Yingtan Mountain Academy, and left two weeks ago. He had set off east (there was nowhere to go, west) to find what might be his fortune, or at least a way to feed himself.

      He’d told a handful of his pupils that he might become a ritual master, using arcane rites of the Sacred Path to deal with ghosts and spirits. He’d said that there were doctrines for this, that it was even a suggested life for those who’d taken the examinations but not achieved jinshi status. Teacher Tuan had looked defensive, bitter, telling them this. He’d been drinking steadily those last weeks.

      The boy hadn’t known what to make of any of that. He knew there were ghosts and spirits, of course, hadn’t realized his teacher knew anything about them. He wasn’t sure if Tuan Lung really did, if he’d been joking with them, or just angry.

      What he did know was that there was no way to pursue his own education any more, and without lessons and a good teacher (and a great deal more) you could never qualify for the prefecture civil service tests, let alone pass them. And without passing those first tests the never-spoken ambition of going to the capital for the jinshi examinations wasn’t even worth a waking night.

      As for these exercises in the wood, his fierce, bright dream of military prowess, of regaining honor and glory for Kitai … well, dreams were what happened when you slept. There was no path he could see that would now guide him to learning how to fight, lead men, live, or even die for the glory of Kitai.

      It was a bad time all around. There had been a tail-star in the spring sky and a summer drought had followed in the north. News came slowly to Szechen province, up the Great River or down through the mountains. A drought, added to war in the northwest, made for a hard year.

      It had remained dry all winter. Usually Szechen was notorious for rain. In summertime the land steamed in the humidity, the leaves dripped rainwater endlessly, clothing and bedding never dried. The rain would ease in autumn and winter, but didn’t ever cease—in a normal year.

      This hadn’t been such a year. The spring tea harvest had been dismal, desperate, and the fields for rice and vegetables were far too dry. This autumn’s crops had been frighteningly sparse. There hadn’t been any tax relief, either. The emperor needed money, there was a war. Teacher Tuan had had things to say about that, too, sometimes reckless things.

      Teacher Tuan had always urged them to learn the record of history but not be enslaved by it. He said that histories were written by those with motives for offering their account