Young Writers Society

1193 words 

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Governor Chang Mul. The emperor's Caesar. Perhaps he sensed Rén's stare, because he looked up from whatever he was perusing and made eye contact. Rén winced inwardly, but held the stare, inclining his head forward slightly before looking down. The governor nodded back, then gestured at Rén to approach him.

'Abalone,' Rén said anxiously. 'Do I--does he do the checking--or is he just--'

'What?' Abalone was in the middle of craning his neck to catch sight of the Emperor. He looked at where Rén pointed him to. 'Oh--the governor. You'll have kept your stamp, right? Just walk up to him and get yourself marked.'

Rén made a face. 'But--'

'Go.' Abalone pushed him. 'Are you half-dragon or half-chicken?'

'Full-chicken, I think, actually,' Rén muttered. He felt around in his bag for the stamp as he walked up to the governor, whose face seemed to twitch into what Rén could have sworn was a slight smirk when their gazes met yet again. Close up, Governor Chang Mul's eyes were like half-moon slits, his face impossibly creased as though it were a wrung-out cloth that someone had not deemed important to iron. Rén bowed, then handed the governor the stamp Yesim had given him the day prior: a simple laced knot that spelled out Yesim's initials. The marking was over quickly, the governor informed Rén that he would have to sit in a specific section near the stage, and a young boy who seemed to vaporise into being led him to the designated area. A few rows of wooden stools were placed closest to the stage. People with pens and paper--scribes--sat there, expectant, waiting. Yesim's Post was a minor office, operating only on a local scale, so luckily Rén's seat was closer to the back.

Once seated, Rén avoided making eye contact with anyone. The couple seated next to him kept pointing and speaking in audible whispers, but he ignored them. He wasn't in the mood for conversation--or, alternatively, for being gawked at. He fiddled with the odd amber stone he had found earlier that day. It was the size of a quail's egg and seemed to rest familiarly in his gloved palm. He spun the stone in his hand, raising it so it caught the light; it sent gold discs careening over his black leather gloves.

Rén watched, transfixed. It looks like a miniature train orbital. He fisted the stone.

But the stone showed no sign of wanting to stop. It spun, faster and faster, growing hot with every turn. Rén started and his knees bumped into the stool in front of his. The man sitting there grunted, looking over his shoulder to glance at him disapprovingly.

'Sorry,' Rén muttered, giving the man a quick nod. Thankfully, the man was too distracted by the goings-on onstage to pay too much attention to Rén: a cluster of thin, black-robed figures had begun to gather onstage, their faces painted a dirty orange, save for a pale strip around their eyes. A swan-shaped insignia was embroidered on their chests, and they all carried an odd assortment of objects--apples, trumpets, books and vases, as though they had grabbed the first item they had seen and carried it with them onstage. Their leader, a short, squat man, stood in the centre. He cleared his throat, and the crowd hushed.

Rén could feel the temperature rising within his curled-up fist.

'People of the capital,' the Symbolist leader boomed. Rén couldn't keep himself from raising his eyebrows. For such a small man, his lung power was quite remarkable. 'We hail from the Western Isles, a land that is quite different from yours, yet we come with all the goodwill of clansmen clustering together in a storm. With our comrade, your king, we have had much dialogue about the history of your young country. We have learned much about your departure from the Larger Kingdom of this continent, the border talks, and also of the difficulties that you have overcome under his highness's rule. It has been a pleasure.' The man inclined his head. The audience cheered and, as if on cue, music started to sound from a koto somewhere behind the Moon Emperor's throne.

'My name,' the man continued, speaker louder over the clamour, 'is Sibel, but my followers and friends call me Master Puto.'

By now, the stone had risen to a temperature that was impossibly hot. Quickly, Rén stuffed it in his satchel, eyes growing wide when even jamming it between the rolled-up scrolls wasn't friction enough for it to stop. He placed the stone in his lap and pressed the bag down--hard, but to no effect. The stone seemed to possess a force of its own. He yelped when a thin tongue of smoke wisped its way out from beneath the delivery bag. Abruptly, he stood up, startling the people around him, and the stone rolled off his lap and out of view.

Rén gulped, his head dipping even lower as he apologised, but the minor embarrassment was the least of his worries. Master Puto continued to speak, his voice growing ever louder by the second. It sounded like someone dragging a rake through a pit of granite chips, harsh and discordant.

'...build a tower,' he was saying, 'as a symbolic representation of the heights we hope to reach...'

'Pompous old man,' someone behind Rén muttered.

'...and together, with the people of Shi Jiāng...'

Something hot pressed itself against Rén's foot. Uneasy, he looked down, sweat trickling uncomfortably down his chest. For a moment, it felt like he had forgotten how to breathe. I'm hallucinating, he thought, pressing his long nails into his palm, so deep that they cut through the leather and drew blood. I'm going mad.

The stone was glowing. It grew larger--larger, tentacles erupting through its glassy surface, tentacles that formed wings, wings that were suddenly tinged scarlet and gold and cut through the air wildly, through flesh and wood ... wings that became a bird, that became a dog, that became a bird again. It trilled louder than any double-reeded horn, fire spewing from its beak and arching through the air to match its symphony.

Rén's ears were ringing--he realised belatedly--with screams. Gasping for breath, he threw himself back, off the stool. He scrambled to his feet and looked around in bewilderment. People pushed past him. He felt nauseous and dizzy. The smell of burnt cloth pervaded the air--a strong, pungent smell mixed with many others, that of sweat and blood and dust rising from the stampede. Rén retched, gave up on trying to gather his bearings and sat down on the ground, curling up into a ball and crossing his arms over his head.

He stayed that way until the clamour was over.

When he opened his eyes, it was to a circus of unblinking, accusing stares, lips forming insults that Rén could not hear. The bird had disappeared. And in front of Rén stood none other than the Moon Emperor himself, a scarlet, feathered scroll clasped in his right hand.

'Bàn Rén,' the Moon Emperor said. 'This is not how I fancied we would meet.'

A mortified blush stained the half-dragon's cheeks.