Ji-Lin had spent many nights out in the courtyard of the temple. Sometimes training exercises lasted for several days. Her bed in the temple wasn’t much more comfortable anyway, just a canvas cot with a thin sheet. Students were expected to live without luxury. Unlike Seika, Ji-Lin thought. Seika got to live in the palace with its plush beds and endless banquets and beautiful gowns . . . Go on, admit you’re jealous. But she wasn’t going to say it out loud. “I didn’t sleep well in the temple in the beginning,” Ji-Lin admitted instead. “Got used to it, though.” She’d cried a lot those first days, into her thin pillow, until she met Alejan.
“The servants began to put pillows on the floor on either side of the bed so I’d land on something soft if I rolled out,” Seika said. “One time I woke to a full palace alarm. I’d fallen off the bed, then rolled off the pillows and underneath the bed. The guards couldn’t find me and thought I’d been kidnapped. Father lectured me on the importance of not terrifying everyone in the palace. After that, I tied bells around my ankles so I’d wake up if I even shifted in my sleep. It worked. I learned to sleep still. Or at least, I learned how to sleep through bells.”
Ji-Lin grinned, picturing Seika in her canopied bed amid all the lace blankets and many pillows, with bells around her ankles. The court ladies must have gossiped about that.
Softly, so softly that the words seemed swallowed by the darkness, Seika said, “I missed you so much.” Or maybe Ji-Lin only imagined it. She could have formed the words out of the wind, or just heard them in her own head because they expressed how she herself felt.
She wanted to say it back, but she didn’t want to look weak and mushy in front of Seika, when she was supposed to be her guard, strong and brave. Besides, Seika must know that Ji-Lin missed her. Of course Ji-Lin missed her sister. She was her sister. It went without saying, didn’t it? Or maybe she should say it . . .
Before Ji-Lin could decide, the moment had passed. Seika was breathing evenly, slower than before. She’d drifted to sleep. I’ll say it tomorrow, Ji-Lin thought. Silently, she placed her sword across her lap and stared out into the night, watching for monsters.
Chapter
Eight
SEIKA WOKE AND wished she hadn’t. “Ow, ow, ow.” She shifted, trying to wake muscles that had decided to knot during the night, and she bumped into a rock. Cracking her eyes open, she looked around the alcove.
In daylight, she saw they were in a shallow cave beneath an overhang of rocks, exactly as it had seemed in the night, which was a relief. She’d fallen asleep imagining bugs were crawling all over her and monsters were chewing on her feet, but that hadn’t happened. The floor was ordinary, not-very-bug-infested dirt, and there was a circle of bushes around part of the opening, shielding the sisters and the lion from sight. Ji-Lin sat next to the opening, her sword on her lap, as if she hadn’t moved in hours. Her eyes were fixed on the fishing village below them.
“Still deserted?” Seika asked.
“Except for the monster.”
Seika felt as if she’d been dunked in the sea. She was suddenly very awake. Crawling, she joined Ji-Lin by the entrance. Wordlessly, Ji-Lin pointed. Seika followed her finger—and saw the koji.
The stories talked about many different kinds of koji. This one looked like a snake, except it was the size of a house and had five sets of wings on its sinewy back. Its scales were a brilliant fiery red with black zigzags across them. Seika felt sick. It was real. It was here. It was enormous. “Ji-Lin . . .”
“It’s a weneb.” Ji-Lin’s voice was clinical, and her eyes stayed fixed on the winged snake.
Seika latched on to the name—yes, a weneb. She’d read about them. “They grow to a hundred feet long. The females are larger than the males, and they will fly hundreds of miles until they find a place to lay their eggs. They’ll create a nest by . . .” Seika looked more closely at the way it was curled between the buildings. “Ji-Lin, I think it’s nesting here, in the village.”
This could have been the same koji that had scared the people in the last village, except it had only been passing through there. Here, it had decided to stay, forcing an entire village to flee.
“I wonder if it ate the messenger bird,” Ji-Lin mused, “the one that was supposed to tell the villagers in Tsuri we were coming.”
Seika heard a soft sound behind her and jumped, but it was only Alejan padding toward them. He had to hunch down to fit next to them. “The bird could have been an appetizer before the sheep,” he suggested.
A bite-size appetizer, she thought. The weneb’s fangs were tucked into its mouth, but given the size of its head . . . it could have easily devoured the bird. “What do we do?” Seika asked.
“Option one: we fight it,” Ji-Lin said.
What? No! Seika opened her mouth to object. They’d spent last night fleeing it—
Ji-Lin held up a hand, stopping her. “Option two: we take you back home to Shirro, to safety, and then come back with more lions and riders and then fight it.”
Alejan stuck his large head between them to look out at the sleeping koji. “I like option two,” he said. “I do not like snakes.”
“I can’t go back!” Seika cried. “We have to complete the Journey!” She thought of how the villagers had scrambled to perform for them, how eager and excited they’d been. What we’re doing matters to people, she thought. To our people. It’s important!
“A koji can’t be allowed to nest here. If I can bring more lions and riders—”
“If we don’t finish the Journey and the barrier falls, every village could have a weneb nesting in it.” Seika took a deep breath. “There’s a third choice: we sneak past it and go on.”
“Past that?”
“It’s asleep.”
Ji-Lin frowned, and Seika could tell she was thinking about it. “What about the people of Gyoson? We can’t just leave them homeless.”
“They’ll have help soon,” Seika said. “The caller of Tsuri sent a message to the temple.” She hoped the weneb hadn’t eaten that messenger bird too—but it had moved on already, hadn’t it? The villagers had said no sheep had been eaten last night.
Ji-Lin shook her head. “Even assuming the message got through, the lions and riders won’t know the koji is here. They’ll be looking in Tsuri.”
“Then we send another message, from the next village. Let the temple know where the koji is. If it’s truly nesting, then it won’t go anywhere until after it’s laid its eggs.” She’d read enough about wenebs to know that. They’d nest, lay their eggs, and then fly away. Later, their eggs would hatch into baby wenebs, who would eat anyone who hadn’t already fled. “Can’t you see? This weneb is exactly why we have to complete the Journey!”
“It’s not safe to continue with a koji out there. My responsibility is to keep you safe.”
“We’ll be just as safe flying on as we would be flying back,” Seika argued.
“I can’t guarantee our safety in the air in either direction this close to the village,” Alejan said. “It could wake and see us. Of course, we could fight it in a heroic manner—”
“Yes, we could!” Ji-Lin chimed in.
“—and naturally, if there was someone in need of rescue, I would be the first to say we should attack, even though I hate snakes and it’s a very large one and probably venomous . . . but given that no one is in danger, we cannot risk Princess Seika’s safety. I recommend we cross the mountain on foot and then once we are out of sight, fly.” In a worried voice, Alejan added, “That would make a good story, wouldn’t it? The sneaky escape?”
“I like that plan,” Seika said.
Ji-Lin was scowling. “Fine. We sneak away on foot, fly to the next village, and then send another messenger bird.” She spat out the words as if she didn’t like the taste of them.
“The first sign of valor is knowing when to bravely run away,” Alejan said.
“It’s not running away,” Seika said. “It’s running toward.”
Ji-
Lin snorted. “Toward what?”
“Um . . . toward new adventures?” She wasn’t sure if that was exactly right. “Toward our destiny!” Yes, that was better.
“Ooh, do you think someone will make a song out of our adventures?” Alejan asked.
“Not if no one lets me fight anything,” Ji-Lin grumbled.
Seika wanted to shake her. Couldn’t she see how unnecessarily dangerous it was? Look at the monster’s teeth! Its claws! “I just don’t want it to be a tragic song. Dead princesses might make for romantic tales, but you’re my sister!”
Ji-Lin sighed loudly.
Below in the village, the weneb shifted in its sleep, knocking over a market stall. Seika’s heart beat fast. She couldn’t imagine fighting that thing, or watching Ji-Lin fight it. “Ji-Lin, as heir, I forbid it.”
The order lingered in the air, and Seika thought about taking it back. She’d never spoken to her sister that way. But she meant it.
Without a word, Ji-Lin crept out of the cave.
Seika hurried after her, crawling through the bushes that encircled the cave toward the top of the rocks. She caught a glimpse of Ji-Lin’s expression: pressed lips, flared nostrils, crinkled forehead . . . clearly angry. Seika felt a jab of guilt—she hadn’t meant to make Ji-Lin unhappy. They used to agree about everything, right down to liking orange soup but not liking orange cake. I’ll make it up to her, she promised. Somehow.
Ji-Lin pointed up the mountain, toward the trees. “Hurry. We’re too visible.”
Emerging from the bushes, Seika blinked in the dawn light and was shocked to see that it was a beautiful day. Surely a day with a monster in it should be dark and broody. But birds were chirping all around them. She saw songbirds swoop from branch to branch. So many birds! She hadn’t imagined that waking up outside would be like waking up in the middle of an orchestra. Early-morning sun poured across the harbor, causing the water to glisten as if it were covered in crystals. Several boats rocked gently in the waves, waiting for sailors who weren’t coming. A buoy tolled somewhere in the distance. And the monster slept fitfully.
Climbing higher, Seika felt every rock through the soles of her soft slippers. Brambles stuck to her skirt. Her mouth felt gummy, and her hair was matted against her head. She needed a hairbrush, soap, water, towels, and a spray of fig-blossom perfume. If the court ladies could see her now, they’d be appalled. But she didn’t care.
It was enough that they were escaping.
It was enough that Ji-Lin had listened and wasn’t foolishly fighting that monster.
It was enough that—
She saw the waterfall. Gasping, she stopped, transfixed.
“Seika?” Ji-Lin asked. “Are you okay?”
“It’s beautiful,” Seika breathed. The word didn’t seem to go far enough. The waterfall was more beautiful than any art she’d seen in the palace. It tumbled from a gap in the rocks above them, cascading over mossy stones and between trees with paperlike pink flowers. Swimming through the falling water were little creatures—they looked like tiny children, no larger than her hand, with fins instead of arms. They were leaping into the water and swimming through it in figure eights. Sunlight gleamed on their wet, silvery scales, and Seika heard the sound of their laughter, mixed with the bubbling water. Mer-minnows, Seika thought. Kin to the waterfolk. Seika had read about them but never seen them. They only lived in the wild, away from cities and towns.
Seika, Ji-Lin, and Alejan climbed beside the waterfall, up into a forest. Looking back, Seika could barely see the village through the trees, which was good, because it meant the weneb wouldn’t be able to see them.
She hoped the villagers were well hidden in their koji shelter.
As they climbed higher, her stomach rumbled. She wasn’t used to skipping breakfast. Usually, when she woke, one of the girls or boys from the kitchen was only a bell ring away, to deliver toast or a bowl of sliced kimi fruit or even a few sweetened bananas, fried lightly with a drizzle of sauce. Yum. Her innards rumbled again as she thought about food.
Worth it to see mer-minnows, she reminded herself.
Ji-Lin didn’t stop and didn’t even slow. She kept trudging upward. Alejan loped behind her, occasionally looking over his shoulder at where the village was nestled against the sea. “It’s moved,” he reported.
“Where?” Ji-Lin asked.
“Still in the village, but it’s awake. It’s knocking down buildings, I think.” They heard a faraway creak, and then a crash. “Yes, definitely knocking down buildings.”
Making its nest, Seika thought. She hoped the warriors from the temple would come before the village was flattened.
“We should have fought it,” Ji-Lin said.
Seika suppressed a sigh. Not this again. “I don’t know how to fight.” She knew how to dance the elaborate patterns of the masquerade, how to dissect a poem into its metaphors, how to eat a kimi (always with a spoon), and how to paint her face so she looked like a character from an old tale. But she’d never fought so much as a mouse.
“I should have fought it.”
“It could have eaten you. And then come after me.”
“I’m fast, especially on Alejan.” But Ji-Lin didn’t meet her sister’s eyes.
“One time, I had an etiquette lesson, and I had to bow for three hours straight until I had it perfect. I was dizzy by the end of it, after bobbing up and down so many times. So if you want me to bow, I can do that. But I can’t fight a giant snake monster.”
“You bowed for three hours?”
“There are thirty-six different kinds of bows, each appropriate to a different ritual. Some depend on the time of day. Some depend on location. If you’re in the throne room, it looks like this.” Stopping, she executed a flawless bow, one that befit an emperor. “If you’re greeting someone in a kitchen, a shorter bow is more appropriate. You need to be aware of the amount of space around you. One time, I was tired, and I did an imperial bow to the laundry. The seamstress was laughing so hard that she nearly sewed a sleeve shut!” Ji-Lin didn’t laugh. She just looked at Seika as if expecting her to add more. “Well, it was funny at the time. She was the head seamstress. Sewing a sleeve shut . . . Never mind.”
“I need breakfast,” Alejan announced.
“Once we’re safely out of sight, we’ll see if we have anything left. Come on. It’s not much farther,” Ji-Lin coaxed. “Just over the ridge.” They continued, climbing higher. The air seemed crisper up here. It smelled more like pine and less like sea.
“My point is: I was given different lessons than you were,” Seika said, climbing alongside her. “I’m not strong like you are.”
“You’re strong enough to climb a mountain,” Ji-Lin pointed out.
True, Seika thought. She hadn’t known she was strong enough to hike this far or climb this high. She continued in silence—or not in silence. The world around them was singing and chirping and buzzing and rustling.
The bird songs were different up here. She heard them echo their melodies back and forth. A few were low calls that sounded like the bellow of a cow. A song snake was lying on a rock, crooning to itself up and down an octave. Climbing out of the trees, they reached the ridge . . . and saw the unicorn.
The unicorn was balanced on the ridgeline, very close. It was the size and shape of a mountain goat. Its pelt was thick, feathery fur, whiter than a cloud, and its spiraled horn was black as obsidian. It stood in profile, silhouetted against the blue sky, its long fur flowing in the wind. Its horn looked as if it were piercing the sun.
All three of them froze, staring at it.
The unicorn turned its furry neck and looked at them. Seika saw its nostrils flare once, and then it leaped away and ran along the narrow ridge, higher up the mountain, toward the bare rocks above. Sunlight glistened on its back, and its silver hooves gleamed.
“Wow,” Ji-Lin breathed.
That was . . . Seika was breathless. She never thought she’d come so close to a wild unicorn. She’d seen th
e paintings, heard the tales . . . First mer-minnows, and now a unicorn. If I’d stayed safe and fed in the palace, I’d never have seen any of this. I’d never have known the islands could be so beautiful. I’d never have known I could walk so far or climb so high.
“What scared it?” Alejan asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Ji-Lin said. “Maybe the large lion stalking toward it?”
He fluffed his mane, offended. “I was not stalking.”
Seika twisted to look back down at the village, mostly hidden by trees. “Do you think it saw the monster?” Ji-Lin and Alejan turned to look with her. Everything was silent and still as far as Seika could tell, but she could only see slices of houses through the forest. A few birds flitted from tree to tree. She heard rustling—but it sounded as if it was coming from above them.
“There’s something up there,” Ji-Lin said. “Over the ridge. That’s what frightened the unicorn—do you hear it?”
“Another monster?” Seika asked, turning around. Ji-Lin was staring at the ridge as if she were a royal hunting dog who’d sensed a rabbit. Listening, Seika didn’t hear anything. Not even birds.
Alejan sniffed the air. “People!” He trotted forward.
Seika and Ji-Lin hurried to follow. “Are you sure?” Seika asked. It could be the villagers! Or other islanders who lived nearby. Or bandits and murderers. “Wait, how do we know they’re friendly?”
“We know the monster isn’t,” Ji-Lin said. “Come on. Almost there!”
As they climbed higher, Seika stumbled on the rocks, and Ji-Lin helped her. Seika had to lift her skirts. Her toes felt pounded as she bashed them against the stones. Several loose rocks tumbled down.
“Quickly,” Ji-Lin said. “We’re too exposed here.”
Scrambling, Seika climbed. Her back itched, and she couldn’t stop thinking that any second, that koji was going to pluck her off the mountain with its sharp claws . . . But then they reached the top.
On the other side of the ridge, a man and a woman—the people Alejan had smelled—climbed up to them and helped them over the top of the ridge while talking in overlapping whispers. “Your Highnesses, quickly, please, careful, hush, are you hurt? Are you well? We didn’t know you had arrived. And to spend the night outside, with a koji near! You are so brave. The Emperor’s Journey . . . We received the emperor’s messenger bird and were so worried about you.” And then they were safely over, hidden from the sight of the weneb.