The broken world

Surprisingly enough, Jin-ho’s decision to marry Emperor Wei of Yuigui was her own. The idea came to her not long after meeting Yangfei. Conversations with the woman must have stirred something in Jin-ho’s worldview. “I won’t let Iljeon or any of my other sisters marry the Yuigui emperor,” she declared. “I’ll marry him myself. What do you think of that? If you support me, Father won’t object, even though I’m the youngest.” “Why would you want that?” Gerel asked. Jin-ho echoed thoughts he had only recently entertained himself: “Yangfei would make a good ruler. Maybe too good. And Iljeon — I love her, but she’s not very clever. She wouldn’t stand in Yangfei’s way.” It was only half the truth. Not all of Jin-ho’s ten sisters were foolish — not by a long shot. But Jin-ho must have seen the opportunities this marriage presented and wanted them for herself. Quite an understandable desire. Thus began the conversation Gerel would recall many times afterward. “I like Yangfei,” Jin-ho continued. “She’s smart — always reading books like you, and she can write, and she knows so much. And she’s strong. Not in a fight, maybe, but in other ways. That’s good, too. If things were different, we could have been friends.” “Marrying her lover is a strange way to show admiration,” Gerel said dryly. Jin-ho giggled. “Let her have her lover. What do I need with this philosopher of emperor? I’m sure there will be plenty of handsome young men at court to keep me entertained. But if she gets in my way, I’ll find a way to deal with her.” “What kind of empress would you make? You’ve always said you wanted to be a general or a strategist.” “I’m not a child anymore, Gerel. I’ve realized wars can be waged without swords or bows.” “I don’t understand why you want this,” he said, “but if you’re asking for my support, you have it.” They sat together in his tent. Jin-ho leaned against his shoulder, sipping something strong from his flask. Gerel hoped she would abandon her fondness for alcohol in Yuigui. She was far too clever not to know that an empress respected by her people shouldn’t constantly smell of wine. She’d also have to learn to read and write; it would take work, but she’d manage. No one would stop her from riding horses or practicing archery outright, but soon she’d have little time for either. She would transform into someone entirely different. The affairs of state and courtly intrigue would clash with her straightforward, open nature. Jin-ho would learn to wear robes of silk embroidered with silver and gold, selecting colors and patterns to suit the season and occasion. Her unruly braids with their clay beads would give way to elegant coiffures adorned with double-tiered pendants... “You know, I used to think I’d marry you,” she said suddenly, tugging at one of her braids. “It would have made sense, you being Father’s right hand and all. I think I was a little in love with you.” Gerel was taken aback. His own climb to power had involved contemplating marriage alliances with Tokhung’s daughters, but Jin-ho had never crossed his mind in that way. “Couldn’t find anyone better?” he said roughly, masking his discomfort. “What makes you think you’re worse than anyone else?” she shot back, genuinely puzzled. “Why?” he turned sharply toward her. “Surely you haven’t forgotten my face. Take a good look.” She held his gaze and smiled. “You’re different from the others — so what? People always fall in love with those who stand apart. The prettiest concubines in my father’s harem are from the south, and they have far less white blood in them than you.” He didn’t know how to respond. He could hardly have chosen worse words: “I thought you didn’t like me.” “Sometimes I didn’t,” she admitted. “But sometimes it felt like we could have been friends.” “Maybe we are friends,” he said cautiously. It was true: if he could call anyone a friend, it was Jin-ho. At least she wasn’t afraid of him. “No, I don’t think we’re friends,” she replied. “I’ve always envied you. I wanted to be like you. I still have so much to learn before I can reach your level. Friendship is for equals — or so I think. Maybe others see it differently. I’ve always wondered how people manage to have so many friends when finding even one is so hard…” “I never thought you lacked friends,” Gerel said, surprised. Jin-ho was outgoing, charming, and always surrounded by company. “Those are just acquaintances,” she explained. “They’re fun, but I don’t feel attached to them. The more I think about it, the more it seems to me that I don’t believe in friendship. Do you? Never mind — don’t answer. You’re always alone…” He shook his head silently. It wasn’t as simple as she thought. Did she really believe anyone chose loneliness willingly? Her musings struck him as naïve, but he couldn’t help wanting to hear more. It surprised him that she’d thought so deeply about such things. “But you’ve risked your life fighting alongside soldiers — surely that camaraderie means something to you?” “It’s not friendship,” she said firmly. “In our land — or anywhere — wars are constant. A poor comrade is a bad soldier, and that’s dangerous for a ruler leading the fight. So those in power teach soldiers to hate their enemies and risk their lives for their comrades without a second thought. That’s why people write legends about bravery and brotherhood. But it’s not friendship. It’s ritual. Chains…” Jin-ho wasn’t skilled at speaking eloquently. When she grew passionate, her words tumbled out in torrents, often muddled. But Gerel understood: she was talking about the chains society places on everyone. People cared for their own survival more than anyone else’s. Armies — made of what the saying called "good iron is not made into nails" — were largely composed of the uneducated, the crude, and the brutal, stripped of their humanity to become better killers. What friendship could exist in such an environment? Yet these were not truths one spoke aloud. It was easier to believe in camaraderie and heroism. “…You can fight shoulder to shoulder, save each other’s lives, and still feel nothing for those people. No desire to grow closer. No curiosity about their minds or hearts…” Gerel listened, astonished. He’d always thought Jin-ho’s world revolved around love and archery, yet here she was, showing a rational perspective on life. She might indeed make a good ruler. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he was creating a dangerous rival. If relations between Cheongju and Yuigui ever soured, a strong empress could become an obstacle. But wasn’t lasting peace better than war? Perhaps this alliance would bring about the cultural exchange Yukinari had so passionately advocated. “…Relationships are war,” Jin-ho continued. “Between two people, one is always braver, smarter, more successful, more attractive. And they both know it. You’d have to be blind not to see that the person beside you is weaker, less accomplished, less traveled, less tested. And if you don’t see it — it’s only because the stronger one doesn’t notice their own superiority. But sooner or later, you’ll grow bored of someone who isn’t your equal. And if it’s the opposite — if they’re stronger, richer, wiser — you’ll grow tired of admiration and start envying them, wanting to surpass them. Like I want to surpass you.” She wasn’t wrong. Gerel hadn’t thought of such things in years. Power had dulled his sense of superiority, but as a child, he’d understood. Even play and conversation had been battles for dominance. When childhood ended, these battles didn’t. Forgetting it meant only that you’d grown strong enough to win consistently. “…Friendship,” Jin-ho said, “is the opposite of war. You want to spend time together, without jealousy or boredom. Both have something to give and take from each other. A friend must be your equal, but in a different way — like night and dawn, spring and autumn. One isn’t better than the other. Equality in difference, so both can learn. If you meet such a person, it’s a gift from the Great Tiger…” Though Jin-ho had no shortage of companions, people often dismissed her as spoiled, careless, and shallow. But now, as she spoke with this odd earnestness, Gerel saw something serious and profoundly strange in her. He realized her decision to marry the Yuigui emperor wasn’t so surprising. She was smarter than she pretended, and he had always known it. Maybe she was wrong to think she needed to “catch up” to him. He suddenly felt that she wasn’t younger by a decade, but older — possessing a kind of inner wisdom. Jin-ho’s philosophy left one thing unexplained: what did you call it when you met someone better, nobler, and greater than you in every way, but you couldn’t envy or hate them? The thought saddened him, and to brush it away, Gerel said dryly, “Few people meet such friends. Most end up befriending themselves — or some water spirit with a dent in its head.” Tokhung had once told him about Jin-ho’s childhood belief in an imaginary water spirit, for whom she’d collected rainwater in a little jar. Jin-ho flushed, looking wounded, and fell silent, suddenly a child again. For a while, they sat quietly, until he relented. “You expect too much from friendship, Jin-ho. What you’re describing — it sounds more like love.” “No, no. Love is different… But there’s love in friendship, too.” She yawned broadly. Alcohol always made her lively at first, then sleepy. “Love — it’s everywhere, like dust. A powder scattered through other feelings. Have you ever noticed how many different things people call love? Sometimes it’s funny how different they are. Care for comrades, a parent’s affection for a child, habit, passion, loyalty to a leader or country… It’s all called love, but each has its own word. Love itself — it’s like dust, like light shining through all of it. Sometimes there’s more, sometimes less. Sometimes people say they love someone, but there’s hardly any love in it at all — just rot and filth…” Is she talking about her father? Gerel wondered. Jin-ho rarely seemed in need of pity, but if he thought about it, she had never known parental love. At least Gerel had his mother, if only for a short time. “…But if there were no dust, no love at all, the world would be hell.” That was Jin-ho — always blurting out what others were too uncomfortable to voice. “You could write poetry, if you learned to write,” he remarked. She swatted him hard on the head. When she left for Yuigui to marry Emperor Wei, Gerel remembered that conversation. He said goodbye with his usual coldness, but his gaze was warm. She was right: this dust — this love — was what made this unbearable world bearable. He thought, too, that they might not see each other for a long time, or ever again. And that whatever their bond was, it held some of that dust she spoke of. Jin-ho, as if hearing this unspoken thought, smiled.