Ken Liu - The Wall of Storms

“Hudo- tika ,” Théra had embraced him and whispered into his ear, “don’t mar this happy occasion by contradicting my name. You’re acting like I’m about to be sacrificed when in fact I’m going off to be a bride and the queen of a new people.”

“I’ve lost my mother, and now I’m going to lose you. My sorrow is undissolvable.”

“You’re the emperor now, Rénga . The people look to you and expect to see hope. They need you to assure them that this alliance is the answer to the Lyucu threat. There is no moment when you’re not onstage; you must not let your heart show on your face.”

“I’m not like Father! I’m not like you! I was angry at first when he picked you instead of me, but now I know he was right. Timu doesn’t know how to do this, and neither do I.”

“Do not let what Father or I did confine your choices. I know you will plot your own course. Did you know that Father designed his crown with dangling cowrie strands so that he could veil his face as he struggled with doubt? None of us is born knowing how to wear a mask; we grow into them.”

As the auspicious hour for the departure of the fleet approached, the musicians on the dock began to play: sweet silk-stringed coconut lutes, effervescent bamboo flutes, upbeat wooden rhythm sticks, lively stone echo bowls, buoyant clay ocarinas, perky gourd maracas, cheerful leather singing bellows, and—by Princess Théra’s request—the majestic ringing of bronze moaphya . All the instrument families were represented, as though all the gods were here to celebrate with the mortals.

Théra pulled her brother into a warm embrace and whispered again. The loud music made it impossible for anyone else to overhear. “Mother has a vision for Dara that is seductive and perhaps even right, but she has a tendency to resort to methods that poison the results. You must learn from her, but when the time comes, you must also be ready to confront her.”

“Know when to do the most interesting thing, is that it?” the emperor asked.

“Exactly.”

Emperor Monadétu gave his sister a last powerful squeeze with his arms before stepping back, his face now impassive. “May the gods speed your journey and bring you success in a new land, Princess of Dara.”

Princess Théra turned around and walked up the gangplank to join Prince Takval, having taken her last step on the soil of Dara. She did not look back lest her tears give the lie to her name.

Back in Pan, the garinafin hatchlings had survived, and now, armed with the knowledge Prince Takval had imparted to them, the people of Dara would embark on a grand adventure to gain the trust of new allies in their war—not unlike the gingerly dance to come between the Agon and their new princess.

Princess Théra and Prince Takval Aragoz stood on the deck of Dissolver of Sorrows and watched the Wall of Storms.

Nine other ships rode the waves behind Dissolver of Sorrows . The fleet carried Dara craftsmen, soldiers, scholars, books, seeds, tools—whatever Théra had decided would be of use in that distant land to help a people intent on achieving freedom.

“I guess we know we came on the right day,” said Takval, pointing at the silhouette of the Lyucu city-ship bobbing in the distance.

“A welcoming party,” said Théra.

This was the day Luan Zyaji had predicted when the Wall of Storms would open again, and the Lyucu reinforcement fleet was expected to come to Dara. The Lyucu observers on the city-ship likely did not include Pékyu Vadyu, Théra realized. She and Zomi had calculated that the pékyu would be giving birth just about now, and she wondered how Timu—“Emperor Thaké”—was handling the change of becoming a father.

“They’re not coming closer to us,” said Takval.

“As long as we don’t make any moves toward the new fleet, they should respect the peace,” said Théra. “They can’t deny that we have a right to observe here in the open sea.”

They were conversing in a combination of the language of Dara and of the scrublands. Théra was a quick study, and Takval was a patient teacher. As yet, there was no love between them, only the beginning of a tentative friendship that, in time, might dissolve sorrows and enlarge souls.

She was willing to open her heart and let it be filled with the story she wanted to tell about herself, and that was the most interesting thing of all, she decided.

“It’s starting!” she shouted, and pointed.

The cyclones making up the breathtaking curtain began to part. Like a well-trained army going through exercises on the parade grounds, the cyclones drifted to each side, revealing a calm passage in the middle like a valley between towering mountains of water and clouds. Lightning flashed from deep within the cyclones, a fireworks show for a new era.

In the distance, they could see the small silhouettes of city-ships sailing into the passage from the other side of the curtain. Prince Cudyu’s reinforcements had arrived.

“Launch the signal kites!” the princess called out.

Massive kites rose into the air from the decks of the ships in the Dara fleet. Other Dara ships below the horizon to the south would pass the signal on. Than Carucono had dispatched a flotilla of signal ships to be anchored between the Wall of Storms and the Big Island like a string of pearls so that Pan would receive the news as quickly as possible.

Emperor Monadétu, still in mourning over the loss of both his parents within the span of a few months, urged for a secret mission conducted by mechanical crubens against the second Lyucu fleet.

“They might be able to sink one or more of the city-ships at night and leave no evidence for the Lyucu to claim that we broke the treaty,” the emperor insisted.

“No,” Empress Jia said.

“ I am the emperor!” shouted Phyro. “Not you.”

“You have the title,” said Jia. “But the Seal of Dara is in my hand. The debate is over.”

As the assembled ministers and generals watched, the young emperor got up from the throne and flipped over the table on which documents were piled. He ran from the Grand Audience Hall.

“Let us continue,” said Empress Jia to the stunned officials in the hall. “The business of governance waits for no one.”

For three days, the emperor locked himself in the mourning hall for Empress Risana and refused to see anyone. Courtiers could hear him cry and mumble inside. Eventually, he emerged and asked to see the empress.

“I am not ready,” he said to Jia.

“Not yet,” Jia said. “But do not let that fire in you burn out. Learn to govern it.”

She then opened her arms and embraced the young man, who cried inconsolably.

All the ministers and generals whispered amongst themselves that Dara was indeed fortunate to have Jia as the incontestable voice behind the throne.

The city-ships were now in the middle of the valley between towering cyclones, coming closer by the minute.

“Should we get out of the way?” asked Takval.

Taking a page from the mechanical crubens, the Dara ships were designed to be able to dive underwater for brief periods to conceal themselves. Realizing that they would have to use the same passage through the Wall of Storms as the Lyucu fleet, Dissolver of Sorrows and her sister ships were meant to submerge as the Lyucu approached and to resurface later so that they could continue on their way. The ships weren’t designed to be able to propel themselves underwater, but that wasn’t necessary.