The broken world

Everything had gone wrong. As Gerel had feared, Tokhung refused even to entertain the idea of returning the captive to Ryokoku. Upon securing Yukinari, Tokhung immediately ordered him sent by ship to Pyeongwon, the capital of Cheongju — far from the theater of war. He couldn’t risk Ryokoku's forces reclaiming their emperor. Tokhung himself began preparations to return to Pyeongwon. He was no man of war — he loved power and victory, but only if they came to him without the nuisance of three-day marches or exhausting battles. Now, with his enemy captured, there was no longer any need to remain on the battlefield. As usual, he left such "tedious" matters to Gerel. Or, at least, he tried to. To Tokhung’s surprise, Gerel also insisted on returning to Pyeongwon. Convincing Tokhung was no great challenge; Gerel cited pressing duties at home and argued that the remainder of the war could safely be entrusted to lesser generals. After all, Ryokoku’s army was leaderless, and their emperor's absence would only hasten their collapse. This was true — partially. Victory was inevitable now that Yukinari had been captured. But Gerel didn’t mention that the war still promised to drag on for a long time. Ryokoku's terrain was treacherous, its mountainous fortresses and island strongholds perfect for prolonged sieges. Even Gerel himself didn’t fully understand why he chose to follow Yukinari to Pyeongwon. The moment to act — to change the course of events — had slipped away. Any attempt to rebel against Tokhung and free Yukinari now would be doomed, no matter Gerel’s skill or authority. Tokhung had ordered his prisoner guarded from all, without exception. Best case, Gerel would be struck down on the spot. Worst case, he'd face execution alongside Yukinari upon arriving in Pyeongwon. Yukinari was taken to the Claw — a high-security prison carved into the mountainside, reserved for only the most dangerous and high-profile captives. Tokhung loathed Yukinari so much and prized his capture so highly that it would not have been out of character for him to commission a new prison entirely, just for this single man. But Tokhung’s imagination was too poor for such an idea. Upon arriving in Pyeongwon, Tokhung insisted on visiting Yukinari in the Claw, ordering Gerel to accompany him. Tokhung had become so reliant on his general that he refused to perform even the simplest tasks alone. Whether he realized how utterly dependent he'd grown, Gerel could not say. But this dependence did nothing to temper his suspicion. After their visit, Tokhung kept the keys to the chain binding Yukinari to the dungeon wall as though the doors, guards, and chains weren’t deterrent enough. The air in Yukinari's cell was damp and oppressive. A stale, musty stench filled the small, dark room. Gerel was struck by a memory: Yukinari had always smelled of tea, perfume, and ink. Memories of Ryokoku — lanterns swaying in autumn gardens, late-night conversations over the game board — felt obscenely out of place here. Yukinari was recovering; his wounds had healed. He looked pale and frightened, though he tried to hide it. Gerel saw no signs of beatings, and though Yukinari's thin frame looked slightly underfed, his appearance was more or less as it had always been. Even his clothes remained in tolerable condition. Clearly, he was being treated carefully. But Gerel took no comfort in this. There was no chance Tokhung planned to return Yukinari to Ryokoku in exchange for favorable terms. Prisoners who were destined for release were not sent to the Claw, nor were the keys to their chains guarded with such zeal. No, Tokhung had likely ordered the gentle treatment so that Yukinari would be in good enough condition for Tokhung himself to torment him. When Yukinari’s gaze met Gerel’s, it held no hatred — only bitterness. Gerel looked away. “What do you hope to achieve with him?” Gerel asked Tokhung directly after the visit. “I want him to acknowledge my authority over him. That’s all I require.” “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Your Majesty. Yukinari is proud. He will never kneel before you.” “Then I’ll make him.” “It would be easier to simply kill him.” “Who said I want what’s easy?” Tokhung replied absently, almost dreamlike. “He’ll kneel, even if I have to smash his kneecaps with a hammer.” Gerel had seen — and carried out — enough executions to vividly imagine the scene. Too vividly. “And when will you… discuss this with him?” “There’s no rush. I’ll rest first,” Tokhung said, almost cheerfully. “We can begin the day after tomorrow. Then we’ll see how it goes.”   The following evening, Gerel approached Tokhung. “Your Majesty, I would like to visit the prisoner again. May I have your permission?” “Why, my dear general? You’ll see him soon enough,” Tokhung replied, puzzled. Gerel wasn’t sure he wanted to see what Tokhung intended to show him. “There are a few matters left unresolved between us from my time in Ryokoku,” Gerel confided. “By tomorrow, I fear he won’t want — or won’t be able — to discuss them.” Sincerity is the best lie. Sneaking into the cell unannounced would only arouse suspicion. But by asking openly and receiving permission, Gerel could appear above reproach. Tokhung, whose mind Gerel knew as well as his own, would think this way. “Yes, I heard you spent much time with Yukinari during your stay. What did you speak of?” Tokhung asked, with more disdain than distrust. He could hardly imagine that his treasured general would abandon him to serve someone else. “This and that. Mainly of abstract things,” Gerel replied. “Of countries, fate, gods, miracles.” Tokhung’s interest waned. “You think too much for a soldier,” he said, laughing. What Tokhung imagined Gerel’s visit might entail, Gerel could not guess. But judging by the emperor’s tone, it was something gruesome. “Don’t harm him,” Tokhung warned. “Say what you will, but leave him intact. I want him whole tomorrow.” That seems unlikely, thought Gerel.   The jailer let him into the cell without hesitation. Yukinari sat against the far wall, knees drawn up. The flickering light of Gerel’s lantern illuminated his face. “General Gerel… again.” There was no surprise in Yukinari’s voice. But it was clear he expected nothing good. Gerel didn't know how to start the conversation, but Yukinari made it easy for him: “Another round of negotiations?” he asked, his voice sharper than Gerel remembered. There was something in Yukinari's voice that Gerel had never heard before — an evil mockery? — no, it must have been just bitterness... And the voice itself was unexpectedly as clear as before — for some reason Gerel imagined that it would be muffled, as after a long silence. “No. I—” Gerel said, his voice faltering. He glanced around the tiny cell. Three paces by three — no more. The darkness made it feel even smaller. How could Yukinari endure this? Alone, in constant shadow? It's so easy to go mad here... How hard it was to find the right words. Any words at all. “There will be no negotiations this time,” he finally managed. Yukinari seemed to understand everything at once. His expression shifted. No fear — only surprise. How well he controls himself. Perhaps I have come to torture him... No — he sees people well enough to know that I’m not here for that, thought Gerel. Doesn’t he? “It doesn’t make sense,” Yukinari said, his voice steady. “Alive, I’m more valuable to you than dead.” And he repeated almost word for word what Gerel himself had said to Emperor Tokhung: “You could end the war in an instant, dictating any conditions you want to my country — you understand this, don’t you? Killing me is foolish.” “I know,” Gerel admitted. “But it wasn’t my idea.” “I believe you,” Yukinari said unexpectedly. “I’ve come to know you, General. And besides, I have watched you from the very beginning, read the reports of your victories. I admired you because you've never been truly cruel — not beyond necessity.” Gerel bristled under Yukinari’s unyielding, all-seeing gaze. What makes you think you know me better than I know myself? We've only played Mist and Clouds a couple of times, that's all, he thought with annoyance. “So, it's probably your Emperor who wants me dead — but why would he want that?” Yukinari continued to think out loud. How could Gerel explain? He had seen a lot of things in the army, but he really did try to avoid excessive cruelty: any abominations, he believed, could be justified if there was an answer to the question "Why?", but he could not understand the stupid, animal hatred for the sake of hatred. Until recently, he naively believed that Tokhung had a head on his shoulders and would not let this hatred blind him. It's not easy to explain to a person who does not seem to know how to hate at all that you can wish death on someone simply because he is not like you. That Tokhung’s hatred stemmed not from politics, but from envy. That Yukinari’s courage, wisdom, nobility — even his beauty — were intolerable reminders of Tokhung’s inadequacies. That Tokhung could not bear the contrast between himself and a man whom even his own subjects admired. That Yukinari had the true greatness of the Son of Heaven, while Tokhung was an embodied mockery of this title. “He hates you because you’re everything he is not,” Gerel finally said. Yukinari’s lips curled into a faint, bitter smile. “Imagine that. I worked so hard to win everyone’s favor… Turns out that this is not always useful.” “You still jest?” Gerel snapped, his temper flaring. “Do you not understand? He will do unspeakable things to you. Have you ever seen the execution by ‘a thousand cuts’?” The execution by a thousand cuts involved slicing or severing parts of the condemned’s body one by one. The duration of the ordeal depended on the severity of the crime, though ordinary criminals were mercifully allowed to die after eight or ten cuts — usually succumbing to blood loss after their arms were sawed off at the elbows. Once, Gerel had overseen the full ritual of a thousand cuts when executing one of the southern khans with special ceremony. The man had died very, very slowly, and what remained by the end hardly resembled a human being. Not that Gerel regretted it. If they called him Gerel the Cruel, he had to live up to it. Everyone who witnessed that execution remembered it for a long time, and the months following had been unusually peaceful. Yukinari covered his face with his hand in a sudden gesture of weariness, so at odds with his earlier attempts at composure. “My imagination is quite vivid,” he said quietly. “My country, too, has some rather inventive executions. But you didn’t come here to gloat, did you? Why, then?” Why, indeed? Gerel had wanted to see Yukinari one last time, to tell him… To tell him what? Forgive me? Forgive me for being a coward. Forgive me for being so ashamed of my past, my origins, and myself that I couldn’t share your dream. If I weren’t this way, I would’ve served you without ever desiring more. I can’t make myself believe in miracles and dragons — but so what? I would’ve died for you, because that would’ve been the right death. Instead, I betrayed you. I should never have strayed from your side, and instead, I’m killing you with my own hands… And then Gerel remembered why he had come. “You must not live to see tomorrow morning,” he said, his voice very quiet. “If you want to avoid torment and disgrace, it would be better to die. The emperor despises you, and what he’ll do to you will be worse than death.” Yukinari nodded. Then, as if realizing that the gesture might be hard to see in the dark, he added: “Yes. Better death.” If Gerel had been given such a choice, he would have preferred torture. He didn’t yet know what exquisite cruelties the Emperor of Cheongju had devised for Yukinari, but any torment could be endured if there was hope of survival and revenge at the end. Death, on the other hand, was final — a complete and utter defeat. But he understood that Yukinari was made of different stuff. He feared the man would simply break under torture. (Or maybe, deep down, he feared Yukinari wouldn’t break — and he, Gerel, would be the one who couldn’t endure it. And then what?) “I’ll give you a knife,” Gerel said. Their hands brushed. Yukinari’s fingers were as cold as the blade. “Thank you, my friend.” The words struck Gerel like a blow. “We’re not friends,” he said, though it sounded far less cold than he intended. Almost frightened. They had never been friends — what a lie. Yukinari had merely tolerated his pitiful presence to win him over… “Perhaps not,” Yukinari agreed. “But I’m sorry that’s the case.” So am I, Gerel thought, but what he said instead, almost desperately, was: “Why didn’t you kill me that day, in our duel by the Setagawa River? I saw it — you could have done it, but you didn’t… None of this would have happened if you hadn’t wanted to play noble.” “For certain reasons, I find it difficult to kill people,” Yukinari said, his gaze drifting somewhere past Gerel, as if he were watching something only he could see. Perhaps memories he would rather not recall. “Long ago, I promised myself that I would always act through peaceful means… And you, least of all, I couldn’t have killed.” “And this is where your peaceful means have brought you…” Yukinari gave a small, apologetic shrug, as if to say, This is who I am. What can you do? After a pause, he added: “You know, I’d like you to remember that conversation we had. By the pond. How strange to recall it here, in this prison… I know you thought I was mad — and I can’t blame you. But even so, more than anything, I wish you’d believe in something. If you can’t believe in me, then at least believe in yourself. This world will devour you if you don’t believe in something beyond it.” “To believe and hope for something in this world, you’d have to be a madman,” Gerel said bitterly. “Then let’s be madmen.” He’s trying to pull my strings again, Gerel thought wearily. Even here, by the Tiger, in prison, on the brink of despair. “Don’t blame yourself,” Yukinari added. “I believe death is not the end.” It was such a Ryukokuan thing to say — so beautiful it made Gerel sick. None of it was true. Every word of his was an attempt at manipulation. Yukinari must have thought this was a story where Gerel played the part of the repentant villain. And, truth be told, he was pulling all the right strings: if this were one of those ridiculous novels, Gerel would now slit the jailer’s throat and make a doomed attempt to lead Yukinari out through a wall of guards. If this were a novel — or if Yukinari weren’t bound by an iron chain, the key to which Tokhung kept on his person at all times. Unconsciously, Gerel touched the chain with his hand. When you want to find an excuse, you’ll find one. “Leave,” Yukinari said softly, turning away and retreating to the wall, the chain rattling as he moved. “You cut the veins lengthwise. And for certainty, do it on the arms and the legs,” Gerel instructed, almost mechanically, before leaving the cell and taking the extinguished lantern with him. Yukinari’s body was discovered the next morning by the guard bringing his meal. The emperor and Gerel were summoned immediately. Yukinari had slit his wrists — and his legs, too, just as Gerel had advised. He had done it with the same care he gave to everything else — the cuts ran from wrist to nearly elbow, and below, his blood had soaked his clothes all the way to his knees. His face was calm, serene.