A Song to Drown Rivers

by Ann Liang

When it came down to it, the choice was this: a kingdom, or my happiness. And how many people under Heaven were really fortunate enough to know happiness? Happiness was a side dish, like the sweet, sticky rice cakes Mother made during the festivals, or the glutinous balls stuffed with rich sesame paste. But revenge—that was the salt of life. Necessary. Essential.

“You must hate me,” he said abruptly, looking me in the eye. “What?” “You should,” he said in a strange, cold tone, tempered with self-loathing, but this time it sounded almost like a question. Like he wanted me to tell him. Like he was offering me the whip, and turning his scarred back to me. “I…” I don’t hate you at all. The scent of the rain filled my nose. “You are only doing your job,” I said in the end. “And I am doing mine. This is how the story goes; these are the roles we have chosen for ourselves.”

Two children trotted past us, laughing, watermelon juice running down their chins, coins jingling in their purses. They must have been from noble families; only the wealthy could show such joyous carelessness in an age of war and instability. They assumed their money protected them from everything. The ultimate injustice was that sometimes it did.

He’s … good, you know? Deep in the core of him.” He breathed out, turned to me fully, his eyes dark with an understanding I didn’t want to see. An echo. A likeness. My pulse skipped. It was as if he had sensed every forbidden feeling I’d tucked away, every desire I’d smothered like a candle flame. “If heroes are born from tumultuous times, then he must be one of them. Perhaps very little from our kingdom will survive through the tides of history, but Fanli—I believe he will. Even hundreds or thousands of years from now, I believe they will remember him a hero.” “But heroes always have tragic endings,” I said softly, a lump in my throat.