At the end of the year of the Fire Rabbit, the Manchus who had come from the north subdued Joseon and reached Hanyang itself.

  The king fled, abandoning his people — and even his own family — to their fate. The young Manchu commander, Dorgon, behaved honorably and did not harm the royal wives or children. As for the king himself, he had to kneel three times and bow nine times at the feet of this sixteen-year-old youth, acknowledging his country’s capitulation.

  To secure peace, one of the king’s sons and fifty sons of other noble families were chosen and sent to the Khan’s court as hostages. Later, the Khan seized even Beijing, overthrew the Ming emperor, and began to bear the title Son of Heaven. The hostages were transferred to the capital of the new empire, Great Qing, where all their needs were carefully provided for.

  Meanwhile, in Joseon, the king’s authority faltered.

  The year of the Earth Dragon brought neither prosperity nor joy, and the following Earth Snake year promised little better. Spring was cold, frosts were expected. Farmers were afraid to sow, merchants reluctant to travel. The people had not forgotten the king’s recent flight nor his humiliating capitulation. Even the sending of a not-especially-favored son as a hostage turned into an uproar, with provocative posters and accusations of violating Confucian principles: “What will the father of the nation do to his people, if he abandoned his own child?”

  The king, it must be said, had no lack of children: a daughter and six sons by three wives, with a fourth expecting a baby. The eldest prince was Yi Yun, recently turned eight, already showing remarkable success in his studies, delighting his parents and astonishing his teachers. It was clear he would get the title of the crown prince as soon as he grew a little more and finished the basic curriculums.

  Yi Yun respected the king, his father, loved his mother Lady Kim, and adored his two-year-old little brother Hwan. When Magistrate Ma, his mother’s friend, burst into their quarters one night without ceremony and anxiously warned of turmoil in the palace, Yi Yun understood there had been a coup.

  His mother and two ladies seized his little brother and himself and ran, escorted by the magistrate.

  They managed to reach the service quarters, where his mother exchanged clothes with one of the ladies, afterwards they hurried out of the burning palace. The magistrate showed his badge to the guards, and they were allowed through the gates. All except the lady wearing the royal clothes.

  They ran all day, hid, completely bruised their feet, and ran again. They were starving. Hwan cried. The second lady vanished somewhere. The magistrate found food and coarse used clothing. They ran again, and were chased. Twice the magistrate managed to strike down their pursuers, but he was wounded as well. Finally, he told Yi Yun’s mother to join the crowd of slaves driven from the port to the market to be sold to new owners. It was better than death.

  They did not make it.

  Riders came unexpectedly, dragged his mother from the crowd, and threw her to the ground. The leader said something; she answered, accusing him loudly of treason; he laughed and struck her with his sword; she fell, bleeding. Magistrate Ma was knocked down and trampled by horses, yet he was still alive, reaching a hand toward Yi Yun, when one of the bandits rode up to the terrified slaves for the children.

  Yi Yun stepped forward toward the leader and begged him to spare his younger brother. No one would know who he is, Yi Yun said, and I too will forget and become your loyal dog. The leader laughed, tugged his black beard, and agreed.

  Thus Yi Hwan remained with the slaves and grew up on a farm, not remembering his family, while Yi Yun — now called Mu-in, “No One” — watched over him from afar. And did the dirty work for Chief State Councilor Choi whenever the man required an executioner or an assassin.

  “So why didn’t you kill me, if that is true?” the prince asked, breaking the lingering silence.

  The assassin pressed his lips in annoyance and turned away.

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  “You look too much like Hwan,” he spat. “How can I kill my younger brother?”

  “My mother died that night as well,” Yi Hyun said quietly. “I don’t remember her anymore.”

  “I don’t know which is worse,” the assassin gave a one-sided smile. “Hwan grew up among slaves and doesn’t seem to have missed ours. Maybe sometimes it’s better to know nothing at all.”

  They fell silent again, each lost in his own thoughts. Below, a calm female voice was reading aloud, rain rustled against the roof. A sharp clap of thunder made them both flinch and exchange glances.

  “Your story is very unexpected,” the prince was carefully choosing his words, trying not to make a mistake. “Is there any proof of what you told me? Of your… origin?”

  “No,” the assassin shrugged as much as allowed the hands bound behind his back. “I have a rare eye color, but other such people exist. If any of the royal guards from those years are alive, they might remember my tag. Magistrate Ma made it for me as a joke. I loved showing it to soldiers when I went into the city. I can name the palace pavilions and which of Father’s wives lived where, but I suppose they all burned long ago. The chief eunuch sometimes brought me dried persimmons in secret, I doubt he would confess to it. What else? I could tell you Father loves osmanthus sweets, his tea must be scalding hot, and when he grows angry he folds his hands behind his back so no one sees him tearing at a fingernail. Words like these don’t make a nameless man a prince.”

  “They are very convincing words that can be checked,” Yi Hyun argued, despite all reason insisting he was listening to an impostor and a murderer. “As soon as I enter the palace, I can—”

  “Wait,” the assassin interrupted rudely. “I have no proof. But Hwan should still have our mother’s hairpin. I know he kept it safe, even not understanding its true value. Your faces resemble each other. Take him to the palace, Yi Hyun. There, Father can protect him from the councilor. Hwan grew up as a slave, has no education, can barely write, and will not hinder your claim to the throne. I only want justice and let him live. Promise me you will save our youngest brother, and in return I will testify to everything the councilor has done. It will be enough for ten executions.”

  Perhaps this was the one path Councilor Choi could not foresee. Mu-in always acted alone, hidden in the shadows. Choi’s guards were surely already waiting for him at the residence. But who would imagine he’d dare turn to the authorities?

  As for Yi Hyun, he kept hearing his own name. So rarely spoken aloud, allowed only to the closest friends, none of whom seemed to be alive now. The way it sounded in this stranger’s mouth, natural as breathing, the way he looked at him and spoke — this confirmed the story far more than any tag or hairpin.

  Yi Hyun, who had grown up alone, without parents and without family, allowed himself for the first time to imagine he might have an elder brother. Two brothers. For real.

  “If you testify, you can no longer claim to be a prince,” Yi Hyun said. He felt he was walking on thin ice. Politics could be perilous and complex, and his years in Great Qing had taught him to think of consequences. And of cunning traps aimed at his trust. “Your hands are too stained with blood. Father’s position could suffer.”

  “Of course, I understand,” the assassin nodded. “I will testify as Mu-in, a nameless bodyguard of the Chief State Councilor. Ten years of murders, bribes, and forgeries committed by Lord Choi, not counting that old attack on the palace. We will both be executed. Hwan will regain his name and standing… Hm, I guess I’d like to ask for one more thing. Or even two.”

  “Yes?” the prince asked. Everything so far had gone almost too well. The bait intrigued him. Now he would hear the true price of the deal. Yi Hyun straightened his back, bracing for the trap and disappointment.

  “First, I want to see the councilor die before they execute me. Second…” the assassin hesitated, biting his lip and looking away, “I don’t want Father to know. That I am… me. He believes Yi Yun died nineteen years ago, during the uprising. Let it stay that way. I don’t want to disappoint him with what I’ve become.”

  Tears were entirely out of place, and Mu-in blinked away the traitorous moisture. Not that he usually softened so easily. Was it because he had never spoken of the past to anyone alive, and the memories surged up abruptly?

  “You…” the prince had not missed the wet shine in the assassin’s eyes. And now he could no longer deny that he believed him. A liar would press for pity and kinship to gain advantage. The true prince renounced his name for his family’s sake. Was that not the clearest sign of filial piety?

  That’s why Yi Hyun made his decision.

  “I cannot agree to your terms.”

  “Councilor Choi is dangerous!” Mu-in misunderstood and threw himself into the argument. “He put Father on the throne and since then believes he can do anything. Because of him the king is called gutless and weak. He even spoke of a new treason! First he wanted to dispose of the princes, then of the king, and then — ‘the throne belongs to the strongest.’”

  “And that is why I cannot agree to your terms,” Yi Hyun reached for the dagger. He stood up and stepped behind Mu-in. The set of the man’s shoulders made it clear he expected a blow, yet he made no attempt to avoid it. “The right to judge and pardon belongs to the king, not to me. He will decide.”

  The dagger slid across the wrists, cutting the ropes. Mu-in rolled his stiff shoulders and stared in surprise. Yi Hyun laid the weapon aside, stood before him, straightened the worn stolen robe, knelt, and lowered himself into a deep ceremonial bow.

  “Forgive me for not recognizing you at once, elder brother.”