Chapter 4
At her mother’s question, Yero’s eyes stung.
Her mother, who had lost her wits in the imperial palace, shoved her daughter to the ground and climbed over her, pressing down hard on her shoulders.
“Ah…”
From the sun-scorched grass came the smell of cooked greens.
Watching the crushed blades stain her white hem with their green, Yero’s heart ached.
On her mother’s fingertips there was not the trace of a fine jeweled ring, but only clinging grains of dirt.
Surely, her mother had been digging again—breaking through hardened earth, planting some unknown seed, and then sitting to watch until a sprout timidly pushed through.
“Mother… it hurts.”
It hurts to see you, Mother. Your life has been nothing but hardship, and because your daughter must walk that same life, my heart aches for her too.
“You mean to say… you’ll wed?”
Heo Sang-jae’s eyes widened. In those large eyes that Yero had inherited, beyond anger burned raw terror.
“To hand yourself to some strange man, to become his plaything—are you saying you’ll do such a thing?”
Yero slowly shook her head. She gently lifted her mother’s hardened hand and pressed it to her cheek. From those cooled hands rose the earthy scent of soil.
“No, Mother. I’ll go nowhere. I’ll stay here, and live my life with you.”
“You don’t know… you don’t know how merciless and shameless men can be…”
Muttering like one emptied, Heo Sang-jae collapsed where she sat. Yero gestured for Yuso to come closer.
It meant: tend to my mother, who sits upon the dirt floor.
As Yuso rolled his eyes nervously and hesitated, he finally reached out to touch Heo Sang-jae’s arm.
In that instant, her eyes flared again, and she lunged at Yero.
Yero saw it—the silhouette of her mother against the sun, arm raised high.
In that hand was clenched a sharp, jagged stone.
“That face! That pale, delicate face! It will wither you, devour you!”
Yero did not shut her eyes. Thus, she knew from where the droplets wetting her cheeks had fallen.
They were her mother’s tears—tears that melted down years of suffering.
From those dimmed, once-bright eyes, great pearls of tears fell, drop by drop.
What was it, that terrified her mother so?
What was this thing called a man’s love, that it could shatter a woman so completely?
Mother, I have already withered. Already I am being gnawed by a fate of loneliness and desolation. No winter’s chill has ever shown me kindness.
Then Yuso cried out in fright and clung with all his strength to Heo Sang-jae’s arm.
“You mustn’t! This is Princess Yero, blood of His Majesty the Emperor! To dare mar imperial blood—this time, it will not be mere exile to the Cold Palace, but rather…”
His voice trailed. He could not finish, for to say it outright—that her head might hang from the northern gate—was too dreadful.
But before then, Yero’s cold, steady voice cut in.
“Yuso, enough.”
“But, Princess…!”
“Mother, the heat has wearied you, hasn’t it? I’ll bring you cool water.”
With tears brimming her eyes, Yero smiled softly. The smile loosed the tears, which slid down her temples.
At her words, Heo Sang-jae dropped the stone from her hand. The sharpened rock rolled and half-buried itself in the dirt.
Seizing the moment, Yuso darted forward and kicked the stone far away.
Somewhere, pottery shattered as the stone struck.
“Ah, Yero… this mother…”
Heo Sang-jae stretched out a trembling hand, stammering. Yero quietly lifted the corners of her lips, her smile tranquil.
She clasped her mother’s hand and rose, wrapping the frail shoulders in her arms. The trembling body jerked and heaved like a child sobbing.
“I know. I know all of my mother’s heart.”
Stroking down her mother’s loose black hair, Yero softly sang a lullaby.
It was the song her mother had sometimes sung when she was little. Yero leaned on that song and wept.
Her voice shook with her trembling breath, spreading sorrowfully.
Meanwhile, Yuso brought palace maids from the Cold Palace to help lift Heo Sang-jae’s exhausted body.
Only after seeing them carry her mother away did Yero finally allow herself to blink.
The tears that had clung to her dark lashes rolled down her cheek.
On the parched ground, where the drops fell, dark spots formed and quickly dried.
She could not afford to be weighed down by cheap emotion. She needed costly bolts of deep indigo silk, yet she possessed almost nothing.
Almost.
She remembered—her mother, even in madness, still clutched a pair of ruby rings.
They were all Yero had—all that remained in the Cold Palace.
Heavily burdened by the weight of her heart, Yero drew in a shallow breath and rose.
The grasslands stretched wide. The land’s end lay so far that tracing the horizon with a hand only brought one back to where they stood.
The only shade was the shadow beneath one’s own feet. Stepping on that solid shadow, Irip strode toward his black stallion.
He soothed the horse, placed his boot in the stirrup, and swung into the saddle. The black steed tossed its body, snorting.
“If you’ve rested enough, take up the reins. We move now.”
The palace servants and guards hoisted their packs once more and followed behind without a word.
Impatient, Irip pulled the reins short. The horse’s dark eyes gleamed with cleverness.
And then, it came.
A short cough, and a bitter taste of blood filled his mouth.
“Your Highness!”
Suo rushed toward him, face drained of color. Irip wiped at his lips with his fingers, smearing the damp crimson.
A metallic tang clung to his tongue.
“…So, it was poison after all.”
With a wry twist of his lips, Irip’s once-dull eyes flickered with brief light.
“Your Highness, we must halt and examine—”
“No. That won’t do.”
A sigh escaped him.
His taut neck strained as he held his breath, his throat bobbing. Then, in an instant, he jerked his head down, seized bow and arrow from the saddle, and aimed beyond the horizon.
Suo, turning late, saw it too—dust rising in the distance.
One soldier at the front, catching it first, blew the war horn.
Bwooo—
The ominous sound shook the dark-clouded sky and tore the stillness apart.
Weary soldiers scrambled to fasten armor and draw blades.
“An ambush! Seems they won’t rest till every last one of us is finished.”
Irip pulled the reins tight, turning his stallion. The horse neighed, blinking its dark eyes, and followed his command. Suo fell in behind. Together, black and yellow horses thundered, stirring up pale dust.
And watching the two receding figures was a young woman.
Princess Ryeo-hee of Gunryeong, Irip’s only blood kin.
“Your Highness, it is dangerous. Please, take shelter inside the palanquin.”
At the lady-in-waiting’s bowed entreaty, Ryeo-hee tilted her lips coldly, her face uncannily like her brother’s.
“If my brother and my husband fall, we all die. Did you think I came this far without such resolve?”
She limped forward, gazing toward the horizon.
“…They will survive. They must.”
The maid looked up nervously.
“Do you mean His Highness?”
“No.”
Ryeo-hee answered firmly, looking down at the young maid. The girl’s eyes lingered on Ryeo-hee’s right leg.
With a sneer, Ryeo-hee lifted her skirts to show the rest.
The maid paled at the sight of the burn scar, where the flesh had shriveled from flame.
She stood frozen, neither daring to acknowledge the wound nor covering it, shifting helplessly.
“This body—survived by devouring my own mother in the flames of that inferno. So I will live, live stubbornly, until I see the stone set at my mother’s grave…”
“Princess…”
“So they must live too. My brother, my husband. They must survive.”
With that, Princess Ryeo-hee lowered her white veil.
As dust settled upon it, she fingered the prayer beads in her hand. One by one, she traced the worn beads, each smoothed down by long devotion.
