There’s nothing to be gained in hating me. I neither asked for you, nor have any power to send you away. Our Most Sacred King has decided I require a companion, and therefore one has been acquired.
You can hate him, if you wish, but there’s no benefit in that, either. I should know. Whatever you do, let no one outside this chamber hear you call him such names. You would never see your homeland again; you would never see the light of day again.
While I cannot change what he has done, perhaps I can ease your forced time with me.
Please. Let me help you.
Let me tell you about my people.
I.
His official name, the one which the Royal Signatory painstakingly inks on each decree and resolution, is Herrik Suratson Rengason, the Empyrean Bestowment, Protector of the Three Lands of Uchakk, Healer of the Great Rift, Keeper of Harmony in this World and the Next.
In his presence, his most trusted courtiers and his wife’s relations address him as Most Sacred King Herrik, by his request. For expediency, he says. There is business to be completed, and Most Sacred King Herrik would never allow formality to stand in the way of helping his people.
In his absence, these same courtiers and relations call him only the King, and you would be wise to follow suit. But say it only, as the others do, with the utmost deference and a great deal of love. Did you believe the gossip? Falsehoods, all. There is no dissension here in the Royal Seat—no forced obeisance, no palace spies. The King brought peace to that which had known only the opposite for many decades. United, we experience prosperity that not one of the three lands had seen alone. The devotion of his court is true.
As is the love of the common folk. When they come—and many come, as Most Sacred King Herrik’s magnanimity is renowned—these farmers, laborers, and artisans call him only: Most Kind and Generous Monarch. To even let his name cross their lips is a privilege well-beyond their status.
Me, you ask?
I call him Beloved Father.
(How I long for the day of his death.)
II.
You see no use for etiquette and protocol? How different your homeland must be.
Would you prefer a story tonight? I must leave you soon for my courtly obligations, but we have time for one.
It begins with a riddle.
Three is a number of great magic for my mother’s people here in Uchakk. Three sides to a triangle, three notes in a chord, three lands to make a prosperous nation.
Three beloved daughters of their sacred king.
If you take away one, can the structure still stand?
If you take away two, of what worth is that which is left behind?
In a time not so long ago as to be forgotten, there were three sister-princesses. As was the way with many such sisters, they were devoted each one to the other.
The eldest was a great beauty, with golden skin and eyes the color of the polished brown stones found only on the bed of the Great River Kraya. The middle sister possessed a voice that rivaled those of the birds of the Jumju Forests and charmed those of every gender and class. The third was simply a tender-hearted darling, but the most important of all, for she united them in their love for her. “Promise you will never leave me, my sisters,” she would beg of the older two, and they made the laughing vow gladly, for what use did they have for husbands or distant lands when they had each other?
But no state is forever, and perhaps this is true of happiness most of all. A great tragedy befell the kingdom, as the Queen, the Devoted Mother of the three princesses, passed into the Next World. The sisters mourned the loss of her, but even more for their Beloved Father, as the bond between their parents was renowned everywhere outside the palace walls. Nothing eased his grief, and there was great fear for the future of the kingdom, until the eldest sister took it upon herself to comfort him.
“Never fear, my dear sisters,” she told the other two, “for I will stay by our Beloved Father’s side so he might remember there is still great beauty and goodness within the world, and will help him reach the end of his sorrow.” She spoke truly, for soon enough, the King returned to wholeness and the Three Lands flourished.
Until the eldest sister took ill.
It was a strange sickness, never before seen. Her once-brown eyes blazed with orange fire, and her golden skin was burnt black by the heat of her fever. Physicians from across the kingdom were called upon to cure her, failing time and again.
Three times the second moon rose and set in the western sky before a prince, made of ice and frost, arrived from far across the Wide Sea. He touched the smoldering flesh of her cheek and did not cough at the noxious steam that arose.
When the air cleared, the crust and coal had fallen away and the flame of her eyes had softened to amber. All the court celebrated, but not for long, for the eldest princess had to leave them. “I can cure her,” the ice-prince said, “but not in a land such as this. She must sail across the sea with me and there become my bride.” And because her sisters loved her, they gave the union their blessing, even knowing they would not see her again.
The two sisters remaining found their bond only grew, because of their grief over the loss of the third, but also from their fear, for the King was once again inconsolable.
“I have not our sister’s beauty,” the middle sister said, “but I can sing our Beloved Father songs that lighten even the heaviest burden, and will stay by his side until his sadness abates so he might return to the throne.” Her wisdom was equal to the eldest’s, for again the King reached the other side of his mourning and became the ruler he’d been before.
Then the middle sister took ill.
Her sickness was nothing like the eldest’s. No raging fever, no flaming eyes. Instead, her voice faded to the faintest whisper, her mouth shrunk to a pinhole, her teeth went soft as mud. Again, the royal physicians were called; again, they failed.
The second moon rose and set twice, then three times, then a fourth before succor arrived in the form of a winged man, with jade-green feathers and a great silver comb. He dripped a golden liquid from his beak into her tiny mouth, and she coughed and sputtered in silence until the court rumbled in anger at what the bird-prince had done.
Then a single note, as clear as those that rang forth from the palace bells, echoed across the throne room. It was the first music the middle sister had made in many months, and the court was glad to hear the sound, but again, she could not stay. “I can cure her,” the bird-prince said, “but not in a land such as this. She must fly with me to the mountains and there become my bride.” And though the middle sister wept over leaving the youngest behind, what choice did she have but to join him?
This left the third, who had neither the beauty of the eldest sister, nor the music of the middle one.
The third had only herself.
III.
No, do not call a doctor. My affliction eases for the moment, and there is no physician who can cure me.
(The witches have all been sent away.)
You are kind, though, to offer help, Kawam, considering my father stole you from your home.
May I call you Kawam? It’s a lovely name. Does it mean something, in your mother tongue?
It’s all right; you don’t need to tell me. I shall tell you another story instead.
Last week’s tale was too sad for you?
Perhaps one of redemption, then.
In a time not so long ago as to be forgotten, there lived an angry princeling. He was the least favored of his many brothers: in age, in charm, and in his father’s love. Still, when he reached the cusp of adulthood, the king offered him a gift, as he had his other sons.
“If it pleases you, my father,” the princeling requested, “you would give me an army.”
The king’s lip curled at the idea of condemning good soldiers to follow bad blood, but it was tradition, and he was an honorable ruler, if not a kind one. With a sniff, his father granted the boon; with a smile, the princeling took it—across a sea that beat rocky shores as he might beat an errant dog, across a desert that stoked his rage with its arid heat and thirst, across a mountain that soared to heights that matched his bloodlust. He drove his army on and on, until they reached a place of verdant jungles and velvet heat, of soft flowers and, he believed, an even softer people.
The princeling and his army tore across the land, a bull elephant in musth, destroying farm and village, and all who dared opposed them. For how better to silence his brothers’ taunts and gain his father’s respect than to bring each nation he crossed to its knees, and deliver its desecrated corpse to his father-king like a cat offering its master savaged prey.
His latest victory close at hand, the princeling roared towards a palace so different and distant from his home, expecting little resistance.
Instead, he found a girl.
The local ruler was well known. Feckless where the princeling was driven, simpering where he was bold, this failed king had disbanded his army for being too costly to feed, and had let his swords and spears fall prey to rust rather than trouble himself to maintain them.
But he was not without his wisdoms. The first: he’d allowed his wife to raise their daughter to embrace the ancient knowledge of her foremothers. The second: when his wife told him their daughter could save them and their people, he listened.
Perhaps the girl had had other plans—to study the great books, to sing the sacred songs, to live a life that was of her own choosing. But, under the guidance of her witch-mother, she put those now-lost ideas aside to stand alone on the steps of the palace and make the princeling an offer: herself as his bride and a receptacle for the hate that burned within his shrunken heart.
The princeling accepted. In return, he gifted her his hurt, his fury, and his bitterness, so that she might bury them deep within her. In her generosity, he found his peace. In her acceptance, he found his wisdom.
And in this king, for yes, at that moment he became a king, the Three Lands of Uchakk found their future.
IV.
Your witches would help me, you think? A kind thought, if only they were not on the far distant shores of your homeland. Given how my Beloved Father has enslaved you in a wrong-headed attempt to bring me pleasure, I am not so convinced they would come to my aid.
Our witches were sent away. For once my father was king, he declared: “What need does Uchakk have of magic when they have a ruler as generous and stalwart as I?” He said this as he brought my mother’s people rice and cows, as he fostered the return of the sacred elephants back to the royal seat, as he shared medicine for the sick, and books for the ignorant. What need, truly, does a country so blessed have of witches with their weak promises and capitulation to fate and nature?
Kawam! The basin! I must—!
Thank you. You have a gentle hand.
I am sorry to trouble you. The other maids—they are here only to curry my Beloved Father’s favor and I hate the look in their eyes. Their pity. Their disgust. Their confusion that such a noble man could produce such a weak and hateful creature.
The way you look at me (A look of concern. A look I have not seen in many years.) is a balm.
No. No food. I could not keep it down. No sleep, either. I cannot when my mind is in this state. For when I close my eyes I see only a crimson redness, and tigers in the trees, and a hole where a sister’s love once lived.
Instead, let me tell you another story. It turns my mind away from my fate.
You tire of my silly fables, (my dear) Kawam?
Then tonight, let me share a far more personal tale.
Though I am a princess and was raised in the loving shelter of the palace walls, I have never been naive. I am a third daughter; a pet. Someone to be cosseted, but not someone of significance.
Do not look sad at my words, Kawam, for with such neglect comes freedom. Freedom to read all the books in the library and linger outside the kitchens, listening to the chatter of the dish boys and inhaling the fragrant, heady smoke of their pipes. It is not such a poor way to learn the world.
But anyone who knows the world knows what a lonely man most craves and seeks, maybe even from his own daughter, and so the first night my father called me to his side, my fear rippled through me as an eel through the water, and closed around my throat.
Forgive me for laughing at you, (dear) Kawam. What do you think you could do with that knife, beyond cut more peel from the mango in your hand? You would not last five steps from my chamber door!
Though I appreciate your anger on my behalf, it is misplaced. Shall I spoil my own story? My Beloved Father has never, would never, touch me in that fashion. I only wished for you to know my fear in that moment, so you understand my gratitude when I discovered his true intentions.
(Have I convinced you? I hope so. If you believe my true fate is better than the imagined one, perhaps I will believe it, too.)
One year ago, two weeks after I became the last of my sisters to live in the palace, my Beloved Father bade me visit him in his private chamber. I entered this, his innermost sanctuary, to find him seated high in a well-cushioned chair of carved teak, and rushed to kneel at his feet, nearly falling in my terror.
“Naree.” He cupped the crown of my head with a broad hand. “You’re trembling.”
“I am overwhelmed by your most loving and divine presence, Beloved Father.”
He slid his fingers below my chin and forced me to look at him. “Why, you’re afraid of me!” He laughed then, a gentle one, and his eyes softened with tears. “What an odd, backwards people you are here in Uchakk. To think you believe I would ever harm one of my blessed daughters.”
The luminary by my Beloved Father’s chair threw odd-shaped shadows across his face—black stripes against sun-kissed skin. I waited, uncertain but hopeful, for this was a time when such a thing as hope lived within me.
One thumb stroked my cheek. “It is very hard to be king, Naree.”
I bowed lower, pressing my forehead to his feet. “Please, Beloved Father, share your pain with me. I will do what I can to ease your burdens,” and, at the time, though my brow broke with sweat and my heart thudded in my chest and my stomach rippled and cramped, I meant those words with my whole spirit. He is the Healer, and the Keeper of Harmony. There would be no peace here without him, but instead war, poverty, disease. Any denizen of the Three Lands would have made the same offer.
“It is a simple task,” my Beloved Father said, pulling me upright. He patted a cushioned stool at his side. “One your mother did for me, starting the first night of our marriage. One each of your elder sisters did, as well, before they left for their husbands and faraway lives. It is only to take a drink.”
He rose, then walked to the wall beside his bed. He pushed aside the heavy tapestry that hung there to uncover a small painted door inlaid with sapphires and rubies. A few murmured words I could not understand, and the door swung open, revealing a deep, golden bowl. He cupped it with both hands and returned to me, kneeling at my feet.
“Beloved Father,” and my words shook for never had I witnessed such a thing, “you must not subjugate yourself in this way!”
“No, Naree,” he said, his voice as gentle as a spring wind. “It is only right for me to honor you, for how you will honor me.” He pushed the bowl towards me. “Take it. Drink.”
I took the bowl; my hands immediately began to burn from the heat of the metal. Only my diligent training in comportment kept me from hurling it back in his face. “What is this?”
“Drink.”
The liquid within was a deep claret, roiling with bubbles in a full boil. “I cannot, Beloved Father. It will scald my throat.”
“Naree.” Tension strummed through my name, a string about to snap. “I told you—I would never harm you. You must drink.”
I thought of the vague and empty face of my Devoted Mother before she passed on. I thought of the broken promises my sisters had made me. “Father,” forgetting the honorific in my fear, “I cannot.”
Hands of iron, as scalding hot as the bowl I held, gripped my wrists. My Beloved Father’s face was that of a stranger—ruddy with sweat, the whites of his eyes crimson. “Drink the fucking bowl, Naree!”
What choice did I have? I drank.
Flames poured deep into my gullet, scorching my mouth and throat. Molten iron tore through my innards and beat at my ribs. I ripped free of my father’s grasp, clawing at my breast, willing to rend my very flesh to set loose the fire that burned there. Tears and mucous sizzled and spit as they streamed from my eyes and nose. It would kill me; I was sure of it. I would die and go mad in the process.
I fell to my knees, and the world went black. My last sight was that of my father’s face—kind and gentle again. Filled with sorrow, but also:
Relief.
V.
You’re a clever woman, Kawam, or perhaps I am the stupid one, to think you would not guess at the truth over our many weeks together.
Yes, my sisters married princes of ice and wind and left me behind. Yes, my mother was the girl-bride on the steps of the palace. Yes, my grandmother was the witch who devised a way to save the Three Lands.
No, I have no more stories. You’ve heard of one of grief, one of power, one of inescapable fate. What else is there?
A story of hope?
Oh, dear Kawam.
If only.
At the time, I believed that first awakening was the worst moment of my life. And it would have been, were it not for the second, the third, the dozen that came after.
My mouth was dry and rancid with the taste of bile. I pressed my hands to my face and lips, certain I would feel only scorched flesh, but all was whole.
I was whole. Or, at least, my body was.
I swallowed, cautiously, but it did not burn or sting. I reached for the gauzy netting that surrounded my bed, but found I could barely lift my arm. With time, I pushed myself upright, a vague thought of escape tickling the corners of my mind, only to retch when acid bolted upward in my throat.
Batting away the netting, I stretched to find the pot below my bed, but I grew dizzy and toppled towards the floor.
Rough hands grasped me—claw-like ones I did not know.
The hands held my body in the bed, and my head over the pot. “That’s it, child,” a strange and rusty voice told me. “Get rid of it. That’s a good sign. Get rid of it all.”
“It” was thick, molten, and putrid—not as painful as it had been going in, but damaging in its own way. I felt it would never end, the viscous, oxblood torrent that poured from my mouth, but it did. It did end.
A cloth damp with cool water wiped my brow. “Your mother survived it, so shall you, for the good of our people.”
My grandmother. I opened my eyes to gaze upon the woman whom I had not seen since my Devoted Mother’s funeral. “Why are you here? Why now?”
“The King commanded it,” she said. “I could hardly say no.”
The King. My Father, for at least in my own head I would not give him the honorific again. I struggled against her hands on my shoulders. “Is he coming? Here? Now?”
“No, child,” my grandmother soothed. “He would not ask you again so soon.”
“But he will ask again?”
“Yes. In a week. Perhaps a month.”
She looked nothing like my Devoted Mother who, even in death, had been adorned in heavy chains of gold and rubies, with hair dyed dark from a mix of henna and indigo. The mother of my mother was a crone—sallow skin as creased as crushed silk and hair that matched the filthy geese Uchakk farmers raised for down.
“What do you know of it?” I demanded, calling on what little imperiousness a third daughter is allowed. “Why did he call you, and not the Royal Physicians?”
“Because, child.” She stared into my eyes and stayed silent so long I thought it was her only answer. “Because he does not want you to go the way of your sisters. Because he needs you to last as long as your mother did. Because I was the one who showed them what could be done.”
She told me the story I have since told you—of the vicious princeling who was now Our Most Sacred King, and of the daughter who offered herself up as a receptacle to her chosen husband’s anger.
“A receptacle? The bowl. It’s…”
“What allows your father to be the kind and magnanimous ruler he is. The gift your mother gave your father, the one I taught her how to give, is the true Keeper of Harmony and Healer of the Three Lands.”
“It killed her.”
“Yes.”
“It was killing my sisters.”
“They were not strong enough.”
“Nor am I!”
My grandmother stroked my greasy, sweat-soaked hair, a brief flicker of compassion crossing her brown eyes. “You must be. There is no other.”
“Why did you come, if not to help me? Why did he send for you?”
She rose from the bed. “To make clear the importance of your duty and your sacrifice. I gave him my daughter to save the Three Lands; you will give him the best years of your life, or maybe your life altogether, to keep it whole. This is the only way.”
“Wait!” I called as she moved to leave. “This cannot be my fate! I demand you help me!”
My grandmother turned to me. “You have no power over me. But I will offer you this: find another. A new bride, a new daughter. That is your only escape.”
She left, then, having done nothing but ruin my life.
VI.
You have glad tidings from the servants’ quarters? You mock me, Kawam, for nothing can bring one such as me joy.
Are you certain? Might it be idle gossip from bored maids?
You saw the decree? Truly? You would not trick me, would you?
No, I don’t believe you would. Your loathing for me has long fallen away over these many weeks we’ve shared together, hasn’t it?
A new wife. My father is taking a new wife.
In a time not so long ago as to be forgotten, there was a bride. She came from the far side of the Wide Sea, a great beauty with skin as pale as the snow that blanketed her land in winter, and eyes as green as the moss of spring. The Most Sacred King was pleased, and the celebration lasted many days and nights.
On the final day of the festivities, a gift arrived, from Our Most Sacred King’s own father: a book of histories “so that you might learn from your betters,” a delicate crown of the finest rose-gold “now that you’ve finally taken a proper wife,” and a child’s sword of magicked steel “that you can pass to your own son, if ever you sire one.”
Our Most Sacred King was so grateful for such a generous offering from his father that he composed a letter of thanks that very moment, then excused himself and his new bride from the court.
In the morning, she was dead.
VI.
You’re right, of course, Kawam. As you often are.
Why bother with stories, when you know this tale as well as I do? For together we watched it repeat with another bride, and then another. Women from distant lands, women from near ones, it mattered not. None are strong enough to support my Father as he requires.
My grandmother was right. I am the only choice.
How can you ask me to leave, Kawam? How do you not see? You have been to my Father’s court. Does your homeland have such prosperity, or are there those who struggle to eat? Do your rulers possess such wisdom, or is there endless debate that stands in the way of progress? Do your citizens live in such peace, or must they guard against their fellows, resentful in their dissatisfaction?
Truly, Kawam, tell me how the life of a third daughter could have any import when her sacrifice brings safety and comfort to so many?
Listen up, princess, and let me tell you a story for a change.
It’s the story of a stupid woman who cut herself into pieces to feed a nation and let herself starve in the process. The End.
You think your sacrifice is the only path to peace for Uchakk, but that’s nothing but your father’s voice in your head. He uses you because he can, and because it’s easy. That’s the way the world of the powerful works and always has been.
But it’s not the only way.
We’ve had men like him, and women, too, where I’m from. We felt their greedy, grasping hands around our necks and severed them at the wrist. We drove them from our shores and left them to drown in the fucking sea.
Fuck your peace, that’s built on another’s suffering.
Fuck your prosperity, that comes from stealing foreign lands and wealth.
That’s not wisdom, Naree. That’s greed.
You asked me once, what my name means in my homeland, and I refused to tell you.
Let me share it with you now. It means resolute.
As in: I am determined to escape from your wretched nation.
As in: I am unwavering in my devotion to peace that’s been earned and freedom that doesn’t come at the cost of another’s.
(And in my devotion to you.)
VII.
In a time only a few moments ago, there was a foolish woman who thought her anger and righteousness was a match for my Father’s will and his guards. What did you think would happen, Kawam, armed with nothing but a fruit knife?
And now, here you lie, unconscious in my arms, having earned me nothing but an hour’s reprieve so I might tend to you before I tend to him.
You cannot save me from my fate. No one can.
But perhaps I can save you from yours.
I know you will try again to stop him. And I know you will fail, and next time lose your life. Though much has been taken from me—my health, my future, my dignity—you are one loss I cannot bear.
I will say this again and again, when you are asleep and awake, until you understand.
You will not intervene again. Yes, my father has a new bride, and yes, my burden continues, but, as my Beloved Father patiently explained to me, it is the only way. Don’t you see? He must have a healthy, fertile, wife. He must have an heir.
And he must have a place to rid himself of his anger.
That is what I am, and will continue to be.
I do it for my Beloved Father.
For the Three Lands.
And for you.
My most loved friend-who-is-more-than-friend. My devoted sister, whom I love not as a sister.
Take heart, dearest Kawam. For if my father cannot give me my freedom, I can give you yours, so that you might return to the people and land you love.
This is an end I can live and die with, Kawam.
This is the best end for you, and for us.
In a time not so long ago as to be forgotten, there lived a great king who loved his daughter very much. The daughter knew this to be true, not only by his words but by the way he knew her favorite foods and plied her with them (when she could stand to eat). By the sumptuous fabrics he had tailored into many fine gowns (though she rarely had the energy to leave her chamber). Even by how he stole a good woman to be her most loved companion. All is proof of his (warped) love for his dearest and most loyal child.
He loved being the Keeper of Harmony more.
But we both know the end to that story, don’t we, Kawam?
I have only one more tale, but it is one I cannot share with you. Instead, I shall tell it to no one but myself, as I sit at my father’s knee and watch you where you stand with the other maids, in a shadowed corner on the far side of the court.
It is the tale of a princess defined by nothing but her sacrifices. One who bore the burdens of a powerful king so he might rule with a gentle hand. One who will be forgotten by this world the moment she passes into the next one.
Except not by all. Not by the one who loved her.
I wish I could warn you, my dearest, but I know you would beg me to leave with you, and I cannot bear to tell you no, though I must.
For how can I leave my homeland? (That offers me no refuge from my suffering.)
How can I leave my people? (Who turn away from my pain.)
How can I dishonor my mother’s sacrifice by refusing to take it up? (Though I was given no choice.)
How can I abandon my father’s newest wife, or the infant girl who now suckles at her breast, to a fate I would not wish on the lowest worm in the garden?
Do not cry, sweet Kawam, when the hired guards come to bind you tight and ensure you sail west for your home. For even this one year together was a small paradise. Even your hope for me offers me succor.
And when you are gone, I will have my memories of your calloused hands, sure and steady, on my shoulders. Your strong arms, wrapped around my failing body. Your dark eyes, in which I could see the verdant forests of your home.
I will have, too, the stories of that land and your trees that reach into the clouds. The gentle orange-furred beasts that hide in your leaves, and the fierce, sharp-toothed ones that patrol your waters.
Though I’ve only heard it through your voice, rough-hewn as granite, I will have your people’s songs of love and sorrow, as if played by an orchestra.
And I will have your people, too, though I will only know them through you. Their ferocity. Their courage. Their freedom.
No state is forever, except my love for you. And, I hope, yours for me.
No state is forever.
If only that meant my suffering.
If only that meant my father’s reign.
You would say that it does mean these things, and more.
As much as I love you, I hate you a little, too, for giving me a glimpse of the life I might have led.
I wish I had the courage to go with you.
To turn my back on my nation.
My people.
My king.
I know you would say I do not need courage. That you have enough for both of us, and I need only faith.
Faith that we can make it, together, to your homeland.
That the Three Lands will survive without me.
That I will grow strong and whole again.
That I am ready to take your hand.
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K.M. Veohongs is a mixed race Thai-American writer of speculative fiction and poetry. As the daughter of an immigrant to the US, she’s often pulled to write about diaspora feelings and the harms perpetuated by colonialism. Her work is featured in Translunar Traveler’s Lounge, Luna Station Quarterly, and elsewhere, including the Bram Stoker Award-nominated anthology Mother: Tales of Love and Terror. She is represented by Hana El Niwairi at CookeMcDermid. | |
Love this! Great storytelling and suspense.