MAMORU

“You,” the playwright said, waving me over. “That’s right, you. I don’t bite, unless I’m playing substitute for the fox. That man of yours keeps a close eye on you; we both know it. But I’ve a line or two that needs testing.”

If Kouje had been beside me, he would have bristled at the tone the man chose to take with me, even if he didn’t mean anything by it. As it was, most of the group had managed to rope Kouje into hard labor as we stopped for the night, hauling trunks of costumes and juggling sticks and the like from the back of one cart to another. He’d been given time enough only to cast one helpless look over his shoulder toward me before Aiko pulled him in the direction of working for our suppers. And, of course, the border crossing.

The wall rose high above us in the night, illimitable and fearsome. If we could just get across it, then we would be all right; I knew it deep in my bones. But for the moment it stood between us and our escape, and I was as frightened of it as I had been of the Volstov dragons. It was on the same scale and, beyond that, it meant just as much—a cruel, stark metaphor, the symbol of oppression.

Yet it was only a wall.

I’d been left to myself, or so I’d thought; apparently there were rare few among the group’s number that were useless, and I and the playwright were together in that count. In the distance, I heard one of the actors shouting, and the sound of Kouje’s voice answered him, clear and stronger.

“Well?” the playwright asked. “It’s not like you’ll be of any help lugging boxes. You’d break as soon as look at some of those coarse creatures—and I’m only talking about the women, ha-ha!”

I approached the playwright, who was in the midst of reading through a long scroll of rice paper and chewing upon a length of bamboo—which, I realized upon closer inspection, was actually serving as his pen.

“I’m not an expert,” I began, but the playwright hushed me with one hand.

“All the better,” he said. “If I can win you over, then I’ve got anyone on my side. You catch my drift?”

“Ah,” I agreed, and, after a moment, sat upon an empty trunk, folding my hands in my lap. The trunk belonged to the playwright—whose name was Goro, I thought; or at least, that was what Aiko had called him—and he didn’t seem to mind. Besides which, he was too caught up in the writing to notice anyone sitting on anything.

“The prince and his loyal retainer—not ours, of course,” Goro intimated, brushing stray hairs back into his ponytail. “From back in the day; I’ll find a reference, make it work, attract all the right sorts of attention and none of the wrong if I’m lucky. And if I’m not…” His eyes twinkled. “Be famous forever, I suppose.”

“Go on,” I encouraged, though I felt suddenly uncomfortable. There were stock plays, of course, familiar stories that could be repurposed for relevance according to current events—but they also worked to circumvent the law, since any writer could claim that they were merely staging a revival of an old favorite, and it had nothing at all to do with the current state of affairs. It also made the creation of a new play a relatively quick affair: The structure was all there to begin with. Perhaps I ought to give him suggestions.

Then again, perhaps not.

“They’re in the mountains on this one, fighting a demon—you know what, I’ll just set the stage for you. Where’s Ryu? Probably off getting drunk as a lord and badgering all the women. It’s nothing without the music. But think of it like this: They’ve just evaded the guards from the palace, and the two of them are making their way up the mountainside to call upon their ancestors for assistance.”

As Goro spoke, his face transformed into a specter, a fascinating play of light and shadow upon features as still as though they were part of a blank mask. This was no ordinary playwright, I supposed; but it was nonetheless quite strange to see someone else imagining the very story I was living.

At least there had been no mountain demons. Not yet.

“The prince is caught,” Goro continued, striking the hero’s pose. “And I was torn on this line—do you think he ought to say ‘Halt!’ or something a bit more poignant? The poetic hero’s popular these days, but with these country bumpkins—”

“All right, Goro, that’s enough,” Aiko said, coming up behind him. “You’ve got two good hands. Why don’t you ever use them?”

“I’m creating something marvelous,” Goro said, with a flourish and a bow. “There are men in this group that’ll kill to play the prince’s role.”

“I’m far more fond of the loyal retainer,” I said, almost quiet enough that neither of them would hear.

“Come on,” Aiko said. Her gaze was sharp and clear; but that might well have been the starlight. “I’ll save you from this ruffian. They’ve got your husband lifting the heavy stuff now. Little did you know we’d be kidnapping you like this.”

“It was all a part of Aiko’s cunning plan,” Goro added, saluting me with his makeshift pen. “Then again, what isn’t?”

“We’re very grateful,” I said quickly, hoping that I hadn’t ruined their clever jesting with my own earnest interruption.

I had always loved playacting, but it seemed that I was still no good at playing anything but serious. It was all I’d been trained for.

“That’s just because you aren’t the one doing the lifting, am I right?” Goro winked at me, settling himself against the trunk I’d been sitting on.

“All right,” said Aiko, slipping her arm through mine. “This one’s not up for being recruited. You’ll have to get your inspiration from the same place everyone else does.”

I saw Goro throw his hands up in exasperation as Aiko pulled me, gently but insistently, away. It was hard not to feel just slightly regretful. Though I knew the idea was foolish, I couldn’t help but wish that perhaps Kouje and I might stay on there awhile—among the sounds of people and not birdcalls in the night, rustling animals through the brush startling me awake at every turn. Laughter was a comfort, and so much sound was like a shield. Perhaps it would be too much to ask that Kouje act, of course, but there were many other talents to choose from. Perhaps he might be a sword dancer—one of those graceful yet deadly entertainers.

Yet, when I tried to imagine it, all I could conjure up was Kouje looking plaintively at me from the sidelines, as though even inside my own head he disapproved of the matter entirely.

I couldn’t help but sigh. It caught Aiko’s attention as we drew nearer to the fire they’d built, and the sharp, rhythmic sounds of trunks being unloaded or rearranged.

“They’ll have him currying the horses next, if you aren’t careful,” she said, but she was smiling, so that I was fairly certain she was joking. Mostly.

I settled myself carefully next to her on the ground, arranging my robes with care. It had been ages since I’d last donned women’s clothing; so long ago that I scarcely remembered it at all. I was perhaps fortunate, then, that my clothing at the palace had been infinitely more complicated than what I was wearing. I’d stand out awfully if I were tripping over my own feet everywhere we went.

“I don’t think he’d mind it, to be honest,” I said quietly, sharing a smile of my own. “He’s used to hard work, and he has a fine hand when it comes to horses.”

Aiko’s eyes took on that bright, clever look again, that made me feel almost uneasy, as though I’d given away something I ought to have kept hidden. Something of my discomfort must have shown on my face, because the look soon softened before it disappeared entirely. Aiko stretched her legs out in front of her, reaching her feet toward the fire and tilting her head back to look up at the sky.

“Might rain tomorrow,” she said. “Clouds make for a warmer night, but there’s no telling what they’ll bring in the day.”

I looked up too, disappointed. It had been so long since I’d seen the stars. I ought to have been grateful for the opportunity to look at all.

“You’d be no good for the role, you know.”

Confused, I turned my head to glance at her. How could she wear such clothes, I wondered. They would never have allowed that in the palace. And yet she looked so comfortable—as though she didn’t realize it was improper.

“The loyal retainer,” she elaborated, waving a hand to where we’d left Goro, bamboo brush pen stuck behind his ear as he muttered to himself. “You said you preferred him, didn’t you?”

“Ah,” I said, feeling the twist of anxiety in my stomach. Where was Kouje at that moment to rescue me? Probably tending to the horses. I would have to have words with Goro, and indeed with any and all playwrights we encountered from that day out—someone would have to correct all false impressions of the loyal retainer’s impeccable timing and bravery where his lord was concerned. Horses. I’d never forgive him.

“Ah?” Aiko asked.

“Well, you see,” I said, arranging my sleeves with the utmost care, as though I was embarrassed. It wasn’t that difficult to feign. “He reminds me a great deal of my husband.”

I lifted my head, half-dreading what I might see. To my relief, this seemed to be the answer Aiko had been looking for. She was nodding and smiling once more.

“Don’t worry,” she said, as though now we shared a secret between us. “My lips are sealed.”

“Keeping secrets now?”

I heard Kouje’s voice before I heard his footsteps, that same rigid training that he could not quite seem to erase from our days at the palace keeping his movements silent. Had there ever been a time when the most I had to worry about was the sound of servants’ footsteps interrupting my thoughts? It was very difficult to imagine just then, seated in the shadow of the border wall.

Kouje took his place next to me, settling on the ground with a stretch and a yawn like one of the great lions in the menagerie. I couldn’t help turning my head just slightly to stare, since he had never been so informal in front of me. Perhaps it was the influence of the actors, and no doubt his shoulders ached from all that lifting.

All at once I felt like a child, privy to the dressing room where actors removed their mantles and became the real people they’d always been underneath.

He looked first at me, then at Aiko, since neither of us had responded to his question. My own reply had been delayed out of surprise and delight, and likely Aiko was waiting for me to speak. It was my place as a wife.

I giggled, unable to help myself, and hid my face behind my sleeve.

“Oh, I see how it is. That’s just fine,” Kouje said, stretching once more and leaning back to lie on the forest floor. “I’m not invited to share women’s talk, I understand. I was only lifting things all night with the thought that I might come back to the ministrations of my darling wife, but I see now that it was all for nothing.”

I stared at him, gaping mouth hidden by my sleeve. He was acting not at all like himself.

“What’s got into you?” I asked, though my question was not a part of our jest.

On my other side, Aiko shook her head. “The actors are a terrible influence. Rough lot. Not suited for finer folk.”

Kouje smiled, and I caught his eye in the dark. Where had this skill in acting come from? And why had I possessed no knowledge of it until that very moment?

“Husband,” I said, lowering my voice as other men trickled in toward the campfire, some of them toting blankets, “if you run away to become an actor, I shall be terribly cross with you.”

“I have always wanted to play the hero,” Kouje confided, eyes practically gleaming with wickedness.

I sighed. His enthusiasm was infectious, and I had always been particularly weak when it came to resisting enthusiasm.

“Aiko, what am I to do with this man?” I asked. “Who will explain to his dear sister, who once had such high hopes for him?”

“Every man wants to run away to become an actor at least once in his life,” Aiko told me in the midst of setting up her own bed for the night. “It’s the real fools who actually do it.”

“We should worry about crossing the checkpoint,” I said in a whisper, and the shadow of the wall came over me again, chill and sudden.

Kouje seemed to sense it, for he sat up, hesitantly putting a hand against my arm.

“Better to worry about getting a good night’s sleep tonight,” he said, low and calm, in the voice I recognized best of all.

“All right,” I agreed. To the soothing cadence of actors laughing in the night, I slept.

I woke with the bump and jolt of the caravan in the morning, my face against Kouje’s shoulder. I couldn’t believe that I’d been sleeping so deeply as to miss our getting under way, but it seemed we’d commenced with me snoozing on like a baby.

Slightly embarrassed, I clutched at Kouje’s arm and peered around curiously. I couldn’t tell from our position inside the caravan how far along we were.

“Are we stopped?” I whispered.

Kouje half turned, his face bearing none of the impulsive humor from last night. “We are at the checkpoint,” he said. “They’re queuing up wagons and caravans to go through a separate gate.”

“We’ve got all our papers,” Goro muttered, “so what’s the holdup? Morning, princess,” he added as an afterthought just for me.

“There’s a lot of people going through,” Aiko said, sterner than she’d been the day before. “That’s the holdup. No problems. We’re in order.”

I could feel Kouje go nearly rigid with concern next to me. I laid my hand carefully against his shoulder, leaning my head against his back to calm him.

“We’ll be through,” I murmured privately, for myself as much as him. I could feel my heart hammering like a hunted animal’s, but I willed myself to ignore that. We’d made it that far, hadn’t we? That much had seemed impossible, once.

Our carriage moved with miserable slowness, inch by aching inch, as though with each passing moment we grew farther from our goal. The countless ways in which we might be caught ran through my mind—something like a play, I supposed, though one which Goro would never have the inspiration to write—and I could hear Kouje’s heart hammering in his chest from where my ear was pressed, up against his back.

Where was his skill with playacting from the night before? The disgruntled husband, snared by the allure of the open road? And where had my laughter gone?

“Hey,” Aiko said, pausing for an instant before she covered my soft hand with her own rough fingers. “If they see you looking like that, they’ll never let any of us across.”

Our eyes met, and she pulled her hand away from mine as though she’d been burned.

“Sorry,” she added. “I’m needed up front.”

The carriage—if it could have been dignified by such a name, held together as much by the will of its inhabitants as it was by craftsmanship—rolled to a stop, and Aiko disappeared into the front. I could hear the sound of guards and Goro’s laughter changing seamlessly into obsequious apologies and formalities.

“We are sorry to have troubled you,” he was saying, and I closed my eyes.

The image of the guards—perhaps they were even men I had known and trained alongside; friends of my brothers; members of the extended family—seemed more terrifying to me than any quarrelsome demon perched in the trees above on a steep mountain pass. I could imagine the border guards in full theatrical regalia, the vivid red makeup denoting the villains’ roles stamped clearly across their white faces. I could even see Goro playing the wicked captain as he drew back the curtain and peered inside the carriage.

I was not ready for the stage, though I did have a moment where I paused to wonder if I would one day be in the audience, watching my own antics being reenacted. Yet in that play, I knew, the villain would not have been any mere captain of the guard. He would have been my brother. Iseul.

The door in the back of the carriage was flung open and one of the guards, a face I was relieved not to recognize, barked out orders in a tone that was familiar. Even Kouje had used it more than once during campaigns.

“Out,” the guard said.

One by one, we filed into the sunlight; before us, the guards were arranged in immaculate order while we, a ragtag group of the commonest caliber, milled together uncertainly.

“I know I’m an awful playwright,” Goro began, but the guard had only to hold up one hand, and all was silence thereafter.

“These?” the guard demanded, nodding toward two jugglers who stood together.

“Brothers,” Goro replied, his head lowered; he was on the verge, I realized, of kowtowing, dragging his brow through the dirt. “We picked them up a year ago, my honorable lord.”

“And these?” the guard continued.

“Actors,” Goro deferred. “Very poor ones. Of no interest to you, my honorable lord.”

“And these?” the guard asked, stopping before us. I lowered my head in a stiff bow, every bone so brittle I knew they were certain to break. Beside me, Kouje was doing the same, both of us hiding our faces by means of simple custom.

“The man’s hired on for the season,” Aiko said, in the smoothest lie I’d ever heard. Even I, for a wonderful moment, believed it. “The woman’s a seamstress. Fixes our costumes, my honorable lord.”

There had been no need to lie, I thought dizzily. At least, not as far as Aiko knew. I didn’t lift my eyes as the guard took me by the chin and lifted my face toward his, inspecting it.

“A fine woman, cast among this lot,” he said, and for a moment, I recognized what I saw behind the steady mask that obscured his finer emotions. He was regretful. He was only a man beneath it all, and it pained him to think that I, “a fine woman,” had been reduced to traveling with such a crowd. No doubt the times troubled him as much as they troubled anyone else with capacity enough to think beyond orders.

I missed home when I saw his face, but in that moment I was equally grateful to be away from it.

“We’ve often said so,” Aiko said, in a tone I couldn’t quite place.

“And these,” the guard asked, moving down the line toward the next suspicious couple. They were the last, and cleared as actors as well. It was, I supposed, just that easy. I almost wished to apologize to the guard—for it was my own fault that he was stationed there, away from his family and the finer life he craved, searching for someone who had just slipped through his fingers.

“There,” Aiko said, once we were settled back in the carriage and leaving the wall behind us. “Told you lot, no problems.”

“He took a fancy to you, princess,” Goro said, grinning as he chewed, somewhat nervously, I thought, on his bamboo pen. “Pity you’ve already hitched your carriage to another horse. He might’ve made a real lady out of you.”

“She’s a real lady already,” Kouje said quietly. For the first time that morning, I could feel him relax.

After that, Ryu began to tune his instrument, and Goro began to sing the prince’s solo—something about, as I’d suspected, the cruelty of fate and the loss of palace life—and I could not even see the border crossing disappear behind us, as one by one the actors and the jugglers and the musicians and even Aiko began to laugh and joke again, about nothing and everything at once. They were relieved. We all were. And we were in the next province; the first border crossing was finished and done.

“You’d best not run off with a border guard,” Kouje murmured. “They live a hard life, you know. It’s not all palace living and fine parties.”

“I hadn’t once thought of it,” I replied, gripping his hand. “Besides, I’ve heard the women at the palace can be so cruel to one another.”

“And he’d never be home,” Kouje added. “Always off for this or that.”

“All right, you lovebirds,” Aiko said, clapping Kouje on the back. “No need to make us all jealous. We’ll be stopping in town soon enough, and we’re expecting a performance this evening, so prepare yourselves for some hard work. You too, seamstress,” she added, but she didn’t quite look at me—as though she were unable to meet my eyes.