2 river of stars guy gavriel kay

for Leonard and Alice Cohen Table of Contents Title Page Dedication Map Principal Characters Part One Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Part Two Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Part Three Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Chapter XVI Chapter XVII Chapter XVIII Chapter XIX Part Four Chapter XX Chapter XXI Chapter XXII Chapter XXIII Chapter XXIV Part Five Chapter XXV Chapter XXVI Chapter XXVII Chapter XXVIII Chapter XXIX Chapter XXX Acknowledgements Also by Guy Gavriel Kay Copyright About the Publisher PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS (A partial list, characters generally identified by their role when first appearing) Associated with the court Emperor 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 maneater 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 Now she betrays him Shows the poem to both Lu brothers And then there is more They send it to Fuyin in Jingxian He knows a man who runs a printing press, one of the newest kind His own books on the duties of magistrates have been printed there Copies of Daiyan’s poem are made, secretly Some are posted on walls in Jingxian at night Some are sent elsewhere They begin appearing in Shantong Soon there are many more than they have printed themselves, and the whole world seems to know that the words, the heroic, honourable words, were written by Commander Ren Daiyan, who lies a prisoner of the new emperor and his prime minister Let us restore Kitai’s glory of old, Recover our rivers and mountains, Then offer loyal tribute to the glorious emperor Such an obvious traitor, men say mockingly, over wine, over tea, walking in the streets Mockery can be, the poet says at East Slope, a weapon at a time like this His brother, who has been in Shantong, cautions both of them: “They have negotiated their peace If Daiyan’s fate is entangled in that …” If it is, Shan understands, then poetry is no weapon There are none to hand No bows and arrows in the gazebo in the winter of the garden On the morning of the New Year’s eve celebration she walks with the poet to the stream and across the bridge to the temple of the Path The bell is ringing as they approach She has heard it often from the house, when the wind is from the east, carrying the sound Lu Chen has never brought her here before Women are not usually welcome at temples He is saying something, bringing her to the clerics here, his friends They are shy and gracious She drinks a glass of wine with them, and they all salute the coming year and offer prayers for the dead and for the future of Kitai A year ago today, Shan thinks, she had been in Hanjin, knowing disaster was coming, preparing to escape, with Daiyan She had gone to find her husband, outside the warehouse that held their collection He’d refused to come She had urged him to so She had truly wanted him to come They had bowed to each other, then she’d walked away in twilight amid the snow She has her cup refilled with just a little more wine and she drinks to Wai’s memory, to his name Returning to East Slope the poet refuses to let her take his arm in support, though she tries to mask the gesture as her own need They pause on the bridge, looking down to see if there are fish Sometimes the men of East Slope or the clerics fish from this bridge, he says Sometimes they are fortunate Nothing to be seen today It is a cold, dry afternoon, pale winter sunlight The water runs clear She imagines how cold it would be to touch, to taste There is almost a thought for a song in this She feels a kind of traitor for even having images come into her mind She knows Lu Chen would upbraid her for that self-reproach She knows he would be right Approaching the farm they pass through the gate and there, standing on the walk, looking at the main house between bare trees, with the pines set farther back, Shan sees two ghosts on the roof in the lateday light A man and a woman, very close to each other, though not touching They are smoke and shadow, as if they could drift away if the wind grew stronger They seem to be looking down at them, at her Shan makes a small, involuntary sound The poet turns to her He follows her gaze He smiles “I don’t see them this time Are there two?” She only nods, staring up at the roof “That is Mah,” his father says “And the girl from Lingzhou.” “I have never seen spirits,” she whispers “I am afraid.” “They mean us no harm,” the poet says gently “How could they mean us harm?” “I know that,” she says Her hands are shaking “But I am afraid.” This time he does take her arm as they walk into the house HOUSES DO HAVE GHOSTS , and they change—the houses do, over time, who lives in them, and the spirits also change East Slope was no different in this regard, although the home of the Lu brothers remained a refuge for a long time for many different people, a place like a light shining softly in the night through trees In due course, Commander Zhao Ziji came to leave his position in the emperor’s army He withdrew from all public life and service He made his way to East Slope and he was welcomed, and he lived there all the rest of his days Early on he took a wife Her name was Shao Bian, from a town called Chunyu, farther west, on the other side of the Great River, across from the marshes he had known for so long She had strange red hair, Shao Bian—ancestors from beyond the borders and deserts, it was said Ziji also brought to East Slope her aged father, once a teacher, but rendered infirm by a hard life as a watchman in the mines after a son became an outlaw That son was dead, as far as anyone could discover For his wife’s younger brother, whose name was Pan, Ziji arranged an education and then training as an officer in the cavalry of Kitai His wife was said to be extremely clever, as well as unusual in her beauty She was taught calligraphy and other learned skills by the poet Lin Shan, in the time when she, too, still lived at East Slope In her turn, Zhao Ziji’s wife, with his approval, had their own daughter taught those same skills Their daughter married a jinshi graduate, bringing honour to their family Their sons became soldiers, both of them, and then withdrew from military service, with high rank and honourably, after many years Zhao Ziji was buried when his time came in the graveyard on the high ground above the farm, within sight of the stream, and the river on clear days He lay under a cypress tree near the brothers Lu Chen and Lu Chao, who were close by each other, as was judged only proper, for they had been together all their days, whenever it was allowed There also with all of them was the poet’s son, Lu Mah, whose name had already become a byword for loyalty and a son’s love Above the poet’s grave his own words were written: Bury me high up on the green hill And in night rain grieve for me alone Let us be brothers in lives and lives to come Mending then the bonds that this world breaks In the year of her husband’s passing Zhao Ziji’s wife and his sons were offered a gift from the second emperor of the Southern Twelfth Dynasty, and they accepted this They were granted a goodsized estate not far away, in exchange for East Slope From that time on East Slope became a place of homage and pilgrimage, people coming from far away, bringing flowers and sorrow The estate was maintained by Kitai, by succeeding courts, to honour the Lu brothers lying there, and the poet’s beloved son, and it endured as such for years upon years while the rivers flowed After both brothers were gone, the two ghosts, a young man and a young woman, were no longer seen by anyone Not up on the main house roof at twilight, nor in the meadow or the fruit tree orchards, nor above the farm in the cypress trees or the sweet-pear tree of the graveyard It was said that they had gone to wherever it is they go, wherever we go, when we cross over and find rest Daiyan still stood up on the bench sometimes to look out through the bars in the high, small window He didn’t know if this was foolish, and it didn’t matter if it was, to him He had done his share of foolish things But he felt a need at times to see out and down, to the lake, the city He couldn’t quite see the sea from here, but some nights he could hear it Not tonight It was New Year’s eve, and Shantong was loud and joyous below the palace hill That was proper, he thought Life continued, a year closed, a year began, men and women needed to acknowledge they had lived through that turning He was recalling other New Year’s eves, not only the one a year ago in Hanjin You couldn’t linger in just one time, one memory He remembered fireworks at home, sub-prefects through the years supervising guardsmen setting them off in the yamen square He remembered being small enough to be afraid of the brilliant colours bursting in the night, standing close to his mother, reassured only when he saw his father smiling at green and red and silver in the moonless sky He remembered his father’s smile astonishingly well Some things, Daiyan thought, endure as long as we The rivers flow endlessly east, their currents carry everyone, but in some way we are still in the distant west, and some of us are at home There were magnificent fireworks here, in patterns that could make a watcher feel like a child again He saw a red peony bloom in the sky and he laughed at the artistry He wondered at how a man standing where he was could laugh at anything What did it mean or say, that he could be made happy, even briefly, by craftsmen playing with light and fire outside these bars? The cracks of the fireworks were steady now and came from many places There were some here on the palace grounds, others down by West Lake, from boats on the water The night was loud and bright People knew there was a peace now Life not death, perhaps, in the year ahead? But what man could truly know that? Given two more nights in autumn, with a new moon like tonight’s, he would have taken Hanjin back The sounds outside were loud, but he had lived this long as an outlaw, then a soldier, in part because his hearing was very good, so he did hear the footfall in the corridor behind him He was down off the bench and waiting when the door was unlocked and opened The prime minister of Kitai walked in alone Without speaking, Hang Hsien set down a tray with a brazier on the small table in the middle of the room He had carried it himself A flask of wine rested on the tray, being warmed There were two dark-red cups The prime minister bowed to Daiyan, who did the same to him The door, Daiyan saw, had been left ajar He thought about that Sounds outside The crack and snap, then lights bursting “I apologize,” he said, “for the cold, my lord I have no fire, I fear.” “I think they believe it might be unsafe,” the prime minister said “Likely so,” Daiyan agreed “The food has been acceptable?” “Yes, thank you Better than soldiers often eat And they send clean clothing, and a barber, to shave me, as you see He has not slit my throat, either.” “As I see.” “Will you sit, my lord?” “Thank you, commander.” Hang Hsien took the stool Daiyan shifted the bench so they were opposite each other at his table “I brought wine,” the prime minister said “Thank you Is it poisoned?” “I will drink with you,” Hang Hsien said, undisturbed Daiyan shrugged He said, “Why are you here? Why am I here?” The room was not well lit One lamp only It was difficult to read the other man’s face Hang Dejin’s son would be skilled at hiding his thoughts He would have learned how to that The prime minister poured two cups before answering He left them on the table He said, very calmly, “You are here because the Altai demanded your death as part of the price of peace.” And so it was spoken, finally He had known, in a way, all along It was different, though, knowing something in your thoughts, and then hearing it confirmed, made real, planted in the world like a tree “And the emperor accepted this?” Hsien was no coward He met Daiyan’s gaze He said, “He did In exchange he demanded of the barbarians that his father and brother be kept in the north forever, whatever formal demands he might make for their release.” Daiyan closed his eyes A loud crack came from behind him, outside, in the world “Why are you telling me these things?” “Because you have been an honourable servant of Kitai,” said Hang Hsien “And because I know it.” Daiyan laughed, a little breathlessly “I am aware,” added Hsien, “that this might sound strange, given where we are.” “It does,” Daiyan agreed “You aren’t afraid to be alone with me?” “That you will me harm? Try to escape?” The prime minister shook his head “If you had wanted to, you could have had your army here by now, threatening us with rebellion unless you were freed.” Your army “How would I have sent a message?” “Not difficult I am quite certain you instructed them to stay where they were They may not have wanted to, but your soldiers will follow your orders.” Daiyan looked at him by the light of the one lamp “The emperor is fortunate,” he said, “in his prime minister.” Hsien shrugged “My hope is that Kitai is.” Daiyan was still staring across the table “Was it difficult, being your father’s son?” An unexpected question, he saw “Trained to think in this way?” Daiyan nodded “Perhaps It is just the nature of the task The way a soldier needs to be ready to go into battle, I suppose.” Daiyan nodded again He said, softly, “What you’ve just said suggests you don’t expect me to be able to tell anyone what I have heard.” A silence The prime minister sipped from his wine cup He said, in an easy voice, as if conversing of the weather or the price of winter rice, “My father had us both gradually rendered immune to the more common poisons, in doses that would kill another man.” Daiyan looked at him He nodded “I knew that.” Hsien’s turn to stare “You did? How …?” “Wang Fuyin He is even cleverer than you know It would be wise to make use of him as much as you can You should bring him here.” He made no movement towards his wine “You want me to make this easier for you?” A longer silence Then Hang Hsien said, “Commander, they broke into my father’s room and his life ended there They violated his body and left him for beasts They didn’t know people would come to bury him It is not how he should have ended his days So please understand that none of this will ever be easy for me.” After a moment he added, looking past Daiyan at the bars, “No soldiers are with me, the guards outside have been dismissed to join the celebration, and both doors are open—this one and the one to the outside.” And now Daiyan was startled Men could that to you (women, too) however much you thought you were prepared, however much you thought you knew the world “Why?” he asked Hang Hsien looked across the table at him He was still a young man, Daiyan thought His father had died blind and alone Hsien said, “I had a thought when you stood here before the emperor.” Daiyan waited “I believe you decided that day that it might be necessary for you to die.” “Why would I that?” He felt uneasy, exposed “Because you concluded, Ren Daiyan, that Kitai needed an example of a commander whose loyalty led him all the way to his death rather than resist the state.” And this, too, he had never thought to hear spoken aloud, by anyone He hadn’t even framed it in his mind (or heart) so clearly It was very difficult, hearing it now, brought into the world with words “I would have to be a very arrogant man.” Hsien shook his head “Perhaps Or simply aware of why we fell, why we were so unprepared, so easily defeated Tell me,” he asked, “was it difficult to accept that order to come back?” Oddly, it had now become difficult to draw breath He felt as if his mind was too open to this man He said, “I told the emperor We had a way in We would have opened the gates from inside and flooded through Hanjin is no place for horsemen They were dead men in there.” “And you still came back Knowing that?” Another crack of sound from outside His back was to the window but he saw the other man’s glance go there, and the room was briefly brightened by a light behind him “I vowed loyalty to Kitai and the Dragon Throne What kind of loyalty would it have been if I—” “If you became another message for another four hundred years that army commanders could never be trusted not to covet power? And seize it with their soldiers.” After a moment Daiyan nodded “Yes, partly that And also … duty? Just duty.” The prime minister looked at him Daiyan turned away He said, “I am not an emperor Of course I’m not I had no desire to be If I refused those commands it was rebellion.” He looked at the other man, placed his scarred hands flat on the table “And so you returned, knowing your own life was—” “No Not that I am not so much a hero I did not know what you have just told me No one knew those terms of the peace.” “I think you did,” said Hang Hsien gravely “I think that in some way you knew, and came back regardless To make some kind of shining of a soldier’s loyalty.” Daiyan shook his head “Believe me,” he said, “I have no wish to die.” “I believe you But I also believe you feel a … heavy duty Your own word I said it already: you are an honourable servant of Kitai.” “So you bring me poison?” He ought to have laughed, or smiled at least, but he didn’t seem able to “And I leave two doors open behind me.” “You might explain that, as a courtesy.” Hsien did smile “You are even more formal than I am.” “My father taught me.” “So did mine.” They looked at each other Hsien said, “If you were to leave here tonight and go somewhere, change your name, live unknown, hidden from men and the records of history, it would please me to know I did not cause your death, Ren Daiyan.” He blinked, astonished His heart was beating faster “Unknown? How so?” Hang Hsien’s expression was intense It could be seen even by the one flickering light “Change your hair, grow a beard Become a cleric of the Path, wear their robes Grow tea in Szechen I don’t even want to know.” “I am dead for everyone I know?” “For everyone It would be as if you’d left our world Our time If you are faithful to me in this.” “And if I am somehow found? If some soldier recognizes my voice? Or an outlaw I once knew? If someone ever sees my back? If word spreads and men come rallying to me? If someone announces that Ren Daiyan is alive in the south while you are taxing heavily, claiming a new monopoly for the state, doing something people hate?” Hsien’s turn to briefly close his eyes He said, “We are always doing something people hate I am willing to accept that risk, I suppose.” “Why? It is foolish! Your father—” “My father? He would have had you tortured into a confession by now For these words of mine here he would have denounced me to the emperor and watched while I was executed.” “The emperor You would tell the emperor … what?” “That you were killed here tonight and your body burned so it could never be buried and honoured.” “Burned as a traitor to Kitai?” Hsien shook his head “I have been running through magistrates No man wants to make that finding, Ren Daiyan.” “There will always be someone who can be bought.” “Always But you are too important I’d need someone known to be honourable This is the very beginning of a dynasty These things are important.” “But if I disappear, in the eyes of the world you will have murdered an honourable commander of Kitai’s armies?” “A heroic one Yes I imagine the emperor will grieve in public, be angry, and lay blame—” “On his prime minister?” “More likely on treacherous guards here.” “Because he needs you?” “Yes He does.” “You’d have to find some treacherous guards to execute.” “Not difficult, commander That is likely to happen the other way, too.” “If I die in this room?” The prime minister nodded “Someone always needs to be held responsible.” After another moment he stood up, and so Daiyan did Hsien looked down at the table, the wine cups He said, “It is painless, I am told And quicker if you drink two glasses.” He turned, not waiting for a reply At the door he removed his furred and hooded outer garment and dropped it on the cot He hesitated, then turned back a last time “This, also, is something I believe It would have been blood and war and famine and fire if we fought them For generations This peace, this surrender of so much, is hard as death, but it is not children and old men dying Our lives are not only ours.” He walked from the cell HE SEEMED TO BE ALONE He wasn’t certain how much time had passed He was sitting on the bench, back to the window, elbows on the table His hands had been covering his eyes He felt dazed, dizzied, the sensation one had after a blow to the head He’d had his share of those—from his brother at home, in the marsh years, in battle He pushed his hair from his eyes and looked around The door was still open, there were two cups of wine on his table and a flask on the brazier, which had burned out There was a fur-lined garment on the bed The fireworks seemed to have stopped It must be very late, he thought He rubbed his eyes He went to the window with the bench and stood on it and looked down There were still sounds from the city below but West Lake was dark now under the stars He stepped down He shivered Then he realized he must be truly shaken, deeply disturbed— because there seemed to be a light in the room and it wasn’t from his lamp He thought of ghosts, the dead Fox-spirits were said to be able to carry their own light, cast a glow if they wanted to, lure night travellers that way So could some ghosts, theirs were said to be silver-white like moonlight There was no moon tonight New Year’s, new moon He thought of the daiji at Ma-wai Had he gone with her perhaps he’d have survived, after all, to return to another time, not this one, not these wine cups on the table There were, he suddenly remembered, tales that for some, when the tall doors opened for them, they could see the light of the other world, the one to which they were going, before they crossed Doors The cell door was open, and the one down the corridor, Hang Hsien had said There was a hooded garment here to hide him He knew how to leave a city Every outlaw worth anything at all knew how to that He looked at the two wine cups Quicker with both, Hsien had said Our lives are not only ours, he had said Not a bad man A good one, you had to think He had known some good men He thought about his friends, about wind in your face on a galloping horse, about waiting for dawn and battle, the beating of your heart then The taste of good wine Even bad wine sometimes Bamboo woods, the sun through leaves, a bamboo sword His mother’s hand in his hair Could a man live if he left everything of himself behind? And if trying to that, he was found after all? What happened then? Was everything undone? Made a lie? But couldn’t a man trained as an outlaw hide himself in a land as large as Kitai still was, even with so much lost? He thought about Kitai He had a swift, vast image of the empire in his mind, as if he were flying above it, like a god, among stars, seeing it far below, the rivers and mountains lost, and maybe found again one day He thought about Shan then, someone found, the astonishing, undeserved truth of her, and love He could hear her voice, even here, now Sometimes a sweetness in the world He thought of his father, finally In the far, far west, at home Where all the rivers started He had not seen him for so long Dreams could lead a man away from home Honour and duty, pride and love, he thought about them You tried to the right thing with your days, he thought He lifted the nearest cup The body of Ren Daiyan was never found This would have been to preclude the possibility of a shrine, veneration, something that might have undermined the court and its intentions in this matter But the absence of a body can also lead to legends, tales, for we have our needs and desires concerning heroes And so there were shrines and altars, eventually, all over Kitai, with statues of the commander—some on horseback, some standing with a sword Often, outside these temples there would also be a statue of a kneeling, shackled, head-bowed figure: Hang Hsien, the evil prime minister who had murdered the hero (sending poison or an assassin’s blade) against the will and desire of the illustrious Emperor Zhizeng, founder and saviour of the Southern Twelfth Dynasty For generation upon generation, those visiting one of these shrines, coming to honour Commander Ren or seek his spirit’s intervention in their own troubles, would spit upon the kneeling figure of Hang Hsien History is not always kind or just of the legends about Ren Daiyan was the story that the commander had had an encounter with a daiji, and he had resisted her out of duty and devotion to the empire, and she had branded him with the words of his loyalty to Kitai It was accordingly believed afterwards by some that she might have spirited him away from his cell, from his death, and he could be living in another time, or even in their time Others, skeptical, would point out that there was no story ever told of a fox-woman intervening to help a mortal man That wasn’t what they did And to this, the reply would be made: Was there ever a mortal marked as Ren Daiyan had been? It was known, also, that the much-loved poet Lin Shan had left the estate at East Slope where she lived, not long after Lu Chen and his brother died, going off in a cart with only one companion This was not unusual in itself, she had been their guest, the brothers’ presence had sustained her, and she had undoubtedly brought a brightness to both of their lives But it was also rumoured that she went away, when she did, to the far west, all the way to Szechen, where she had no family at all, and this was judged to be puzzling Unless, the argument was made triumphantly, one remembered that she had been very closely linked to Ren Daiyan, and he was from the west The details of her life slipped from the knowledge of the world That did happen for those living quietly, but still … it made a person think, didn’t it? Her poems and songs remained, were collected, widely printed, widely sung, were loved and they endured, a different kind of immortality Lin Shan, of course, is the one who wrote the song “River of Stars” that mothers sang to send their babies off to sleep, that children learned in school and men sang behind the water buffalo and the plough, that courtesans offered to a pipa’s music in rooms behind red lanterns, that women sang to themselves on balconies above fountains, or lovers to each other in the darkness of a garden, vowing that the sad fate in the song would never be theirs There were also tales about a son We have our longings The village of Shengdu in the west, past the river gorges and the gibbons, also became a shrine, a place of journeying, for that is where Ren Daiyan, loyal to the last, had been born There one could find his father’s tended grave, and his mother’s Rivers and mountains can be lost, regained, lost once more Mostly, they endure We are not gods We make mistakes We not live very long Sometimes someone grinds ink, mixes it with water, arranges paper, takes up a brush to record our time, our days, and we are given another life in those words AT THE HEART ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS River of Stars is a work shaped by themes, characters, and events associated with China’s Northern Song Dynasty before and after the fall of Kaifeng It is an increasingly well-chronicled period, although causes and elements are—predictably—a matter of dispute I have, as often in my fiction, compressed the timeline Although several of the characters are inspired by real men and women, the personal interactions in the novel are inventions I have written and spoken extensively as to why I find this melding of history and fantasy to be both ethically and creatively liberating Among other things, I am significantly more at home shaping thoughts and desires for Lin Shan and Ren Daiyan, or developing the characters of my two Lu brothers, than I would be imposing needs and reflections (and relationships) on their inspirations: Li Qingzhao, the best-known female poet in China’s history, General Yue Fei, or the magnificent Su Shi and his gifted younger brother Not to mention other figures at the court (including Emperor Huizong himself) in the time leading up to and through the dynasty’s fall There is a standard disclaimer to the effect that academics whose writings or personal communications have been of assistance to an author are not to be held responsible for what is done in a work of fiction I have used this, but find it slightly disconcerting Who would ever hold scholars accountable for what a novelist does in using their work? Nonetheless, I anchor myself in reading widely and by asking many questions I am indebted to a number of people, and especially to those whose patience with private queries, and support for what I was doing has been considerable Anna M Shields, author of Crafting a Collection, was generous, not only with her knowledge of both culture and history, but also in going back and forth on theories that emerged from my reading of others I am grateful to acknowledge also assistance given by Ari Daniel Levine, whose expertise very much includes the period and events considered in River of Stars, and who sent me a number of monographs by other scholars My translator in China, Bai Wenge, shared a great deal of information My old friend Andy Patton, deeply engaged with Song culture himself, was an ongoing source of support and challenging discussion As for the texts, I’ll begin with poetry, which I come to through translation Of course so much is lost At the same time, the creativity and passion offered by many translators of the great Song poets is inspirational The poems in the novel are largely variations—sometimes cleaving near to an actual work, sometimes veering away There is, as one example, a poem allegedly written by Yue Fei, the source for my Ren Daiyan It is almost certainly a later creation, part of the legend-building process (which is a theme of the novel), but I have used it as the basis of the verse I give to Daiyan late in the book I have read the work of too many translators to cite them all without seeming overzealous, but I’ll be indulged, I hope, if I mention my admiration for Stephen Owen and Burton Watson, two of the giants of the field The intelligence and craft of their work aided me greatly Su Shi’s life and writing (including his exile to the far south) have been usefully examined by Lin Yutang The remarkable Li Qingzhao’s work was brought over into English by Kenneth Rexroth and Ling Chung (using the poet’s name-form Li Ch’ing Chao), and more recently, with a very personal approach, by Wei Djao For the history of the Song Dynasty the best concise overview, to my mind, is Dieter Kuhn’s The Age of Confucian Rule: The Song Transformation of China Beyond that lies the massive Cambridge History of China, volume 5, part That volume was, for my purposes, anchored by Ari Daniel Levine’s two chapters on events leading up to the fall of Kaifeng and the calamity itself The dynasty’s move to the south, in its early stages, is chronicled in a chapter by Tao Jing-Shen F W Mote’s Imperial China 900–1800 has an almost book-length section on the Song, and he’s especially good on the steppe people and their own challenges and inner pressures Morris Rossabi edited a volume entitled China Among Equals, which seeks to place the Song in a larger context, beyond merely dealing with “barbarians at the gate.” The great French historian Jacques Gernet wrote a small, engaging book called Daily Life in China on the Eve of the Mongol Invasion I permitted myself to extrapolate backwards in making use of some of his details I was aided by Stephen West’s and James Hargett’s articles on the imperial garden (Genyue), by Suzanne Cahill’s on sex and the supernatural, and by Peter J Golas on rural life in the Song I was much engaged by the work of Patricia Buckley Ebrey Her The Inner Quarters, on the lives of women in the Song, is fascinating, including a hypothesis on the origins of foot-binding With Maggie Bickford, Ebrey edited a collection of essays on the reign of the emperor who loved his garden so much, whose calligraphy and painting were wonders of the age, and who ruled over a dynasty’s fall: Emperor Huizong and Late Northern Song China The contributors assembled are not far from being a who’s who of major scholars in the field One of them, John W Chaffee, has written on the change in access to power (through the examination system) in The Thorny Gates of Learning in Sung China, and also on the imperial clan and its ambiguous, expensive status in Branches of Heaven Two distinguished figures wrote books I found illuminating and exciting: Ronald C Egan’s Word, Image, and Deed in the Life of Su Shi examines that astonishing writer and man; Egan’s The Problem of Beauty is a look at the aesthetic thought and ideals of the dynasty “This Culture of Ours” by Peter K Bol is a major work on the intellectual and cultural transition from the Tang Dynasty (the inspiration for Under Heaven) through several hundred years to the Song … and that shift is an underlying aspect of this novel Brian E McKnight’s The Washing Away of Wrongs (wonderful title!) is an annotated-andintroduced translation of a Song Dynasty magistrate’s treatise on forensic medicine, and his Village and Bureaucracy in Southern Sung China (the spelling of the dynasty’s name varies in English) was also helpful On the divisions, rivalries, and procedures of ritual masters, village mediums, and Daoist priests in dealing with malevolent spirits (and on the supernatural in general), Edward L Davis’s Society and the Supernatural in Song China offered details and reflections John E Wills, Jr., has written a lovely book entitled Mountain of Fame: Portraits in Chinese History, with chapter-length profiles of Yue Fei and Su Shi—under yet another name variant, Su Dongpo (I respectfully decline to take responsibility for differing name versions in English!) Those familiar with the wonderful fourteenth-century Outlaws of the Marsh (often called Water Margin in English, and there are other variants of the title) will recognize, with a smile, I hope, an ambush technique involving a ladle, wine, and poison There were many more books I fear to write an essay here instead of acknowledgements I will add that research and correspondence with those professionally engaged with the period I am researching has always been a pleasure, and this was particularly so for River of Stars I continue to be surrounded by talented people committed to the novels I write My agents are friends: Linda McKnight, John Silbersack, Jonny Geller, Jerry Kalajian So, too, are my long-time editors Nicole Winstanley and Susan Allison, and this author is aware of how lucky he is in all of these people Catherine Marjoribanks was again indispensable as copy editor, and Martin Springett provided an equally indispensable map In an increasingly interconnected world, my online presence has been mediated by Deborah Meghnagi, who created www.brightweavings.com, and by Elizabeth Swainston, Alec Lynch, and Ilana Teitelbaum, who have sustained and extended it Finally, and as always, I am made more than I would otherwise be by some people at the heart of my life: Sybil Kay, Rex Kay (my first reader), and Laura, Sam, and Matthew, for whom, and from whom, all of this emerges ALSO BY GUY GAVRIEL KAY The Fionavar Tapestry: The Summer Tree The Wandering Fire The Darkest Road Tigana A Song for Arbonne The Lions of Al-Rassan The Sarantine Mosaic: Sailing to Sarantium Lord of Emperors The Last Light of the Sun Ysabel Beyond This Dark House (poetry) Under Heaven Copyright HarperCollinsPublishers 77–85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London W6 8JB www.harpercollins.co.uk Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2013 Copyright © Guy Gavriel Kay 2013 Map copyright © Martin Springett 2013 Guy Gavriel Kay asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Source TPB ISBN: 9780007521913 Source HB ISBN: 9780007521906 Ebook Edition © 2013 ISBN: 9780007521920 This novel is entirely a work of fiction The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental Version: 2013-07-16 All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins About the Publisher Australia HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty Ltd Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia http://www.harpercollins.com.au/ebooks Canada HarperCollins Canada Bloor Street East – 20th Floor Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada http://www.harpercollins.ca New Zealand HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited P.O Box Auckland, New Zealand http://www.harpercollins.co.nz United Kingdom HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 77-85 Fulham Palace Road London, W6 8JB, UK http://www.harpercollins.co.uk United States HarperCollins Publishers Inc 10 East 53rd Street New York, NY 10022 http://www.harpercollins.com ... 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... 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... the record of history but not be enslaved by it He said that histories were written by those with motives for offering their account of events He’d told them that Xinan, the capital of glorious