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  DAWN TREADER PRESS

  titles by

  Ian Alexander

  Award Winning Titles:

  Once We Were Kings

  #1 Amazon.com Bestseller

  Award-Winner in the USA Book New Best Books Awards

  Award-Winner in the Forward National Literature Awards

  Joshua Graham

  Award Winning Titles

  Darkroom

  1st Prize Forward National Literature Award

  Award-Winner in the USA Book News “Best Books” Awards

  Beyond Justice

  Suspense Magazine Best of 2010

  Barnes & Noble #1 bestseller

  Amazon Kindle bestseller

  2008 Amazon Breakout Novel Award Competition Semi-Finalist

  The Door’s Open

  2010 Authonomy Christmas Story Competition

  The Accidental Series

  The Accidental Existentialist

  The Accidental Exorcist

  The Accidental Acquittal (Death and Taxes)

  The Accidental Healer

  The Accidental Hero

  The Accidental Rebel

  The Accidental Poltergeist

  Historical and Fantasy

  Four Gifts for Aria

  Legend of the Tiger’s Throne

  DAWN TREADER PRESS

  For the latest on Joshua Graham’s work visit:

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  www.ianalex.com

  Copyright ©2011 by Ian Alexander.

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Art © Can Stock Photo Inc. / soupstock

  For the hand of a princess, a man will risk all.

  Ying had heard this since he was a boy stealing around outlying taverns and tea houses of Xingjia, though he never gave it any credence. And yet here he was, down on one knee, struggling to keep his head up as he deflected blow after blow from his opponent Moh-Gwei, prince of the seventh district of Chungzhuo.

  Jeers directed at the prince arose from the lower section of the arena where the peasants from Xingjia congregated with their straw cone hats, caged chickens, and goats at their side. He recognized most of their voices, though Chi, his closest friend was not with them in the stands. Chi stood in the wings, victorious after winning the previous round of this contest.

  Moh-Gwei stopped his attack just long enough to shout into the stands. “Send me a warrior to fight, not a mangy peasant!” Fists trembling in rage, his teeth clenched, the muscular prince held his sword over Ying and glared down at him. “Fight!”

  The sun baked the back of Ying’s neck, causing the sweat to form a thin film between his provincially fashioned leather breastplate and his shirt. Ying steadied himself on the pommel of his sword and pushed himself up.

  Taking a few steps back, his weapon still trained, Moh-Gwei pulled his helmet off and smugly dropped it onto the hot sand. He flashed a pearly smile into the crowd where in the elevated booth decorated with red silk curtains, sat Mei-Liang—the princess for whom all contested over these past three days.

  Ying took advantage of his opponent’s momentary distraction to charge at him with all his might. He knew better than to make any sound and risk losing the element of surprise. Not a doubt in his mind; he would defeat this haughty blue-blood.

  But before his sword even came close, Moh-Gwei swung his shield, knocked the weapon out of Ying’s grip, and with another heavy blow struck him across the head.

  Ying fell with a gasp. Flecks of light danced before his eyes. Had he not been wearing a helmet—also fashioned by the craftsmen of his village, his skull would have been crushed.

  Moh-Gwei pressed his blade into the center of Ying’s throat. In a barely interested voice, Moh-Gwei shouted to the stands, “Do the rules of battle apply here at the contests?”

  A rhetorical question, but Ying understood. On the battleground, his life would have been forfeited. To be spared at this point was to be conscripted to a lifetime of dishonor, so killing a fallen opponent swiftly was an act of mercy. Unless the prevailing warrior was particularly cruel and decided to torture him first.

  From the corner of his eye, Ying beheld a pair of hands parting the scarlet curtains that adorned a booth at the front row of the stands. From it emerged the most beautiful face he had ever seen. Princess Mei-Liang’s fair countenance lay half-concealed behind an ornate fan. Her eyes, demure though they were, seemed as round and large as a mare’s. They sparkled in the sunlight. Her silken ebony hair flowed down to her shoulders until a gentle breeze caused some of her locks to fly like the flag from the mast of a sailing ship.

  Even Moh-Gwei paused, arrested by her beauty. “Your Highness.” Right hand still holding the sword to Ying’s neck, he inclined his head, then gestured to his opponent. “O fairest of all princesses,” Moh-Gwei said, his tone pompous and eyes haughty. “The regional protocols of war dictate that a fallen warrior be entitled to an honorable death. Shall I not preserve this poor boy’s honor, and that of his house?”

  Ying’s brow, back and chest were now drenched in perspiration. If Moh-Gwei so much as leaned slightly, the sword would pierce his throat.

  “We are not at war,” Mei Liang said, lowering her fan such that her fine lips betrayed not even the slightest hint of approval.

  “Yes, but—”

  From behind the princess, a dark-bearded man attired in the red satin garb of nobility stepped forth. He lifted a hand and the gold-laced sleeve of his robe unfurled like a banner waving against a blue canvas that was the sky. In a resounding voice he said, “War protocols do not apply!”

  Moh-Gwei inclined his head ever so slightly and withdrew his sword. “My Lord.”

  Relieved, Ying allowed himself the luxury of a full breath. He sat up quickly, stood and wiped the sand from his palms.

  The Princess stood still as the bearded man whom Ying believed to be her father addressed the audience. With a voice barely veiling disinterest, he pontificated on the rules of this particular tournament; singular combat.

  What am I doing here? Ying thought. I’m a shepherd, not a swordsman. And yet, for the hand of a princess...

  But not just any princess, this was Mei-Liang, the same princess whom he had met almost six years ago when she had stolen away from her father’s hunting party in order to explore the woods outside of Xingjia alone. They had not attributed that meeting to fortune, but rather, to fate. At sixteen years old however, vows and words such as ‘forever’ held very different meanings than they did today, didn’t they? She was twenty-one now, and he twenty-two. Would she even remember him?

  Ying sheathed his sword and conceded to Moh-Gwei with a ceremonial bow. Then he angled his chin up to the bearded man in the royal scarlet robe. “Her father seems younger than I would have imagined.”

  “Fool!” Moh-Gwei spat on the ground near Ying’s feet then scoffed. “Her father, the king is dead. That is her uncle, Huang-Kur, The Lord Protector. Even a peasant like you ought to know that.”

  The arbiter came between them, grasped both of their wrists and waited for the crowd to fall silent. Then he thrust Moh-Gwei’s arm into the air.

  “The winner!”

  Like an earthquake, the arena erupted with applause and roars of approval. Ying’s friends and neighbors shook their head in disappointment. He could not keep his eyes trained on them for long without feeling the heat of his ears and sinking of his heart. At least Chi, master of combat that he was, had fared better in the tournament thus far.

  Moh-Gwei stepped over to the stands where the princess stood with the victor’s wreath. He leaned his head down and she placed it around his neck. Moh-Gwei then bowed and returned to the center of the arena where he lifted his hands
up to the audience.

  They began to chant again, as they had in just about every other contest of the tournament, “Moh-Gwei! Moh-Gwei!’

  The prince shook his fist victoriously into the air. Then with both hands he waved, commanding even more applause. Finally, he took a deep bow and held the crowd until they began stamping their feet on the stone steps. Soaking in the adoration of the masses, he placed his fist over his heart and walked off. As he strutted past Ying, he bumped him with his shoulder so hard that he fell to the ground.

  Again.

  The entire arena burst out in laughter.

  But Ying got up and shielded his eyes from the afternoon sun as he peered over to the red curtains, behind which sat the princess. All the taunting and mocking faded into oblivion as he caught a glimpse of her looking over her uncle’s shoulder. But upon what did she affix her gaze? Ying wanted to imagine that she remembered him. But so much had changed since they last met. For her anyway; she was now a regal and elegant woman, tall, slender, and stately in posture. Ying, on the other hand was still—as Moh-Gwei had put it—a mangy peasant. And yet, something had drawn him here, as soon as the contest for her hand had been announced.

  Then it struck him.

  Not a thought, but something cold, wet, and rancid.

  He wiped the ooze off his face and saw that someone from the audience had thrown a fetid tomato at him.

  All the whistling and shouting came back into the forefront of his mind. Moh-Gwei shook his head, laughing and pointing at Ying, while people in the stands called out.

  “He’s not just a peasant, he’s an idiot!”

  “Hold still for another one, fool!”

  “Go home, boy!”

  Standing tall as he could, Ying glanced back over at the booth. But the princess had retreated. Her uncle, The Lord Protector gave a dismissive wave and disappeared behind the curtains as well.

  Two of the royal guards came and escorted him off the grounds. One of them held up a shield to deflect the oncoming onslaught of rotten fruits and vegetables. The other shoved Ying in the shoulder.

  “You did well.”

  Ying smirked. “Do you mock me as well?”

  “To walk away from a match with Moh-Gwei? Most are carried off—the lucky ones, in one piece.”

  The other guard grunted. “He is not so lucky.”

  Ying craned his neck to peer over the guard’s lifted shield. He lowered his head just in time to avoid the splatter of a very old fish as it struck. “What do you mean, not so lucky?”

  “You’ve survived this round.”

  “And?”

  “That means you’ve one more contest with Moh-Gwei.”

  They arrived in the hallway and shut the door. The pessimistic guard put his shield on the ground and wiped something green from his shoulder.

  The optimistic guard’s smile faded. “One more contest, eh?”

  “See? Not so lucky.”

  By the flickering light of his candle, Ying read the leather bound book his Aunt Pei had given him on his fifth birthday. Careful not to wake anyone, he whispered the words as he traced them with his finger. The book had belonged to his father before he and Ying’s mother died in the great fire that swept the eastern woods outside of Xingjia. Now, it was all he had left of them besides a handful of faded memories.

  The number of contestants from Ying’s caste—peasants—had grown slim such that now only four of them remained in the quarters that housed them. An abandoned stable outside the gates of the citadel.

  Chi, having proven himself in the contests, had been advanced to a room within a hostel behind the citadel walls. That he had advanced so rapidly both encouraged Ying and made him wonder. Chi had trained him in all manner of combat, yet he cared nothing for this tournament or the hand of Mei-Liang. In fact, he’d only agreed to participate as a sponsor for Ying, who unlike Chi was not old enough to have ever fought in any battles. But what if Chi won?

  “What are you reading there?” The man in the bunk above his whispered, as the sun had not yet risen.

  “The Teachings of Kronis.” Ying looked up and beheld the withering countenance of a man perhaps twice his age. “I hope I didn’t wake—”

  “Ah, you’re too old to be reading fairy tales. Go back to sleep!”

  A couple of snorts and interrupted snores rose up in the stable.

  “Forgive me, sir. I will go outside.”

  “You’ll catch a fever.” He turned, pulled the burlap blanket over his head, and muttered something before returning to his snoring.

  The dull smell of hay and earth wafted up to his nostrils as Ying got up and padded over to the stable door. Taking pains to shut it quietly behind him, his muscles ached from holding himself still. It finally latched but made a cold click that stirred a bird from the tree above him.

  In the waning moonlight, a very large winged creature perched on the branch and cocked its head eyeing Ying. By its size and outline, it had to be a falcon or an eagle. Ying inclined his head in a respectful greeting. Something about this kind of bird inspired awe and reverence, he wasn’t quite sure why.

  The bluish light from between the tree branches illuminated perfectly a large rock, the flat surface of which made it a perfect place to sit. With every step, the sweet mossy scent of the land enveloped him as he went over and sat. To his surprise and delight, rather than cold and damp, the rock felt warm and dry.

  He opened the book again and noticed the pages lit by the moon. Grateful for the beauty of the moment, he began his devotional time with a prayer. “I thank thee, Valhandra, Great Father of Kronis, for this place to—”

  A sound in the thickest part of the woods alerted him. Furtive murmuring, careful footfalls. Stealthful as a cat, Ying slipped away from the rock and hid behind a tree, his ear towards the approaching sounds.

  “Wait!” One of the strangers hissed. “Someone’s there.” The whine of a sword unsheathing made the hairs on the back of Ying’s neck prickle. Judging by the shadows there had to be three men on horseback. One of the horses blew out and grunted.

  Just then, the eagle flew over them making a violent flapping sound. It let out a piercing cry that echoed through the forest as it soared over to the walls of the citadel.

  “You fool,” another voice said with a mocking laugh. “It was just a bird!”

  “He’s a nervous one, isn’t he?” the third voice added.

  Nevertheless, Ying dared not move because the strangers had also stopped walking and he could not judge their course. Their tone betrayed malice, though he had only begun to discern their words. With great caution, Ying leaned his head against the smooth bark of the white Guhur tree and listened.

  “…will be in position.”

  “How many?”

  “Ten thousand.”

  “That’s too much. This is a coup, not genocide. ”

  “Do you think they will simply hand us the keys to Bai Kuo?”

  “No, but that is why our friend here must not fail to win the tournament.”

  The third person, to whom he referred, did not speak.

  “And how will that help?”

  “Even a blind man can see. Are you so dim of wit?”

  “Have a care, old man. I am not accustomed to…to insults.”

  “They are not insults if they are true. Now listen. When he has won the princess’ hand, their marriage will forge an alliance between the Seventh District—your neighbors in Chungzhou—and this tiny capital of the Third District. With no king or other heir to the throne, the royal family has been advised to make an alliance through marriage. While the capital is small and relatively insignificant in resources, it does hold the most critical strategic position this side of the Handaras.”

  “Ha! You expect an attack from over the mountains and across the desert by the backwards barbarians of the West?”

  “What I expect is the unification of the entire Eastern Kingdom under my fist, when we have achieved our objectives.”

  “Ou
r objectives?”

  “When our champion here marries the princess, he will gain access to the throne, through the imperial elders that reside here.”

  “Neither I nor my troops are concerned with—”

  “And when he kills them—and the queen, the capital of Bai Kuo will be as a fowl beheaded. That is when you will bring in your troops and by a show of force alone, we will take this land. Then you, oh my impatient and slow of understanding little friend, shall be made a prince over all the newly acquired regions.”

  A pause.

  Then slowly like webs of steam from an earthen cup of black tea, laughter floated up into the cold night.

  “A masterful plan. Why did you not tell me this from the start?”

  “One had hoped you could have inferred it from the subtleties of my written communiqués. Alas, you are as thick as my brother had always suspected.”

  “Another insult?”

  “Not an insult if—”

  “Never mind! My troops will be ready. Just attend to your part.”

  A frigid bead of sweat rolled down Ying’s spine. He tried his best not to let his increasingly rapid breathing betray him. With his back pressed up against the tree, cold sweat from his shirt sticking to his skin, he waited until the three horsemen rode off in as many directions.

  When finally they departed, the eagle returned and alighted on the branch directly above him. Five, perhaps ten minutes had passed since the conspiratorial strangers left. Only now did Ying lower his inadvertently arched shoulders. He exhaled slowly and held his book tightly against his chest.

  Just then, the eagle flew down and perched on his shoulder. Ying let out a gasp, but when it stood perfectly still, its talons not even piercing his shirt, he relaxed. “Remarkable!”

  The eagle leaned down and stared at the book in Ying’s hands. To his utter amazement the pages began to glow, golden beams of light radiating from behind the leather cover. He sensed words, not in his ear, but in his spirit. Difficult to discern, but the intent was as clear as the tree before him.