Yi Hyun, Prince Dojun, Crown Prince of Joseon, stood on deck and narrowed his eyes. The bright sun glimmered on the small waves, bringing tears. Tiny gulls circled above the mast, crying out something unintelligible, and the salt spray tickled his nose. Yi Hyun felt free, stirred by the anticipation of what lay ahead.

  In truth, he was not formally the Crown Prince. That title had to be confirmed by the Great Qing emperor — or, to be more precise, by the Prince Regent, since the divine emperor had only recently turned ten — who would send a mission with letters of credence in exchange for Yi Hyun’s assurances of eternal loyalty to the new dynasty.

  But Yi Hyun was his father’s only son, and he had spent his entire life at the Qing court as an honored hostage. He was familiar with most of the leading Manchu officials and with the Regent himself, and he had never once given them reason to doubt his devotion. The mission with his appointment was expected to follow him to Joseon in a few months, so the official title was only a matter of time.

  He had not intended to return to his unfamiliar homeland so soon, or so early. He had only just begun building useful ties at the imperial court, placing his own people into modest positions across several ministries. An honored hostage had little influence — not nearly enough to challenge the policies of the powerful Prince Regent. But he could gather information and bide his time, preparing for the day when Joseon might rise against the bellicose conqueror. That would not be the work of a single decade.

  A few days ago, a messenger from Joseon had brought troubling news. The king of Joseon, his father, whose health had never been strong, had taken ill with a grave sickness. The royal physician doubted he would live to see autumn. In such circumstances, Prince Dojun was permitted to leave the Qing court and return home at once.

  He felt like a tree that a self-assured gardener was trying to dig up and transplant into a new garden. Many of his friends and acquaintances, the laughing dancers from his favorite teahouse, the guards with their Manchu-shaven foreheads and long braids, the rosebush by the gate — everything he knew was staying behind in a place he did not plan to return to.

  With him, his personal eunuchs and maids boarded the ship just as quickly, those who had been sent from Joseon ten or even twenty years ago. Several fellow hostages from noble families — second and third sons whom their parents had once been forced to surrender — also received permission to return with him.

  When Yi Hyun had been sent to Qing, he was two years old. Thanks to his nurse, his servants, his teachers, and these noble companions assigned to him, he had managed not to forget his native language, though he still felt he was stepping into the unknown. Those who had been taken to Qing at an older age shared stories of their families, described festivals, and hummed old songs and rhymes.

  He knew, for example, that the sister of one of his maids had served in his father’s palace; they exchanged letters once a year and dreamed of meeting again. His senior eunuch hoped to return and bring joy to his elderly mother still living in the capital…

  Yi Hyun himself knew little of his family.

  He honored his father, whose face he did not remember, and dutifully bowed to the memorial tablet of his mother, who had perished in a palace fire a year after his departure. He and his father had even exchanged letters. Each year the mission brought him scrolls with the great red seal and with instructions on filial piety. When he was about ten, Yi Hyun realized the letters were written in different hands. They were likely drafted by royal secretaries following dictation. During his twenty years in Great Qing, he had identified four different handwriting styles, yet he still did not know whether any belonged to his father. In recent years, he had begun receiving oral messages from Joseon — precious words that could not be entrusted to paper. Yi Hyun wanted to believe they truly came from his father, but he remembered the guile of the Qing officials and remained cautious in speech and deed.

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  Only now, standing on the deck of the ship sent for him from Joseon, with a Joseon crew, guards, and the companions of his childhood beside him, did Yi Hyun feel the familiar weight of his life begin to loosen. He could speak, move, frown, or smile without wondering how each gesture would be interpreted or to whom his words would be carried. He was a prince and, perhaps, a king soon. The coast of Qing had shrunk and vanished, and the captain claimed that the land visible off the port side already belonged to Joseon.

  “You’ll like it, Hyun-gun,” Han Jae-uk said as he approached and leaned his back against the high wooden rail. Han Jae-uk, second son of the Minister of Personnel, was four years older and half a head taller than Yi Hyun, and had watched over him since childhood, declaring himself the prince’s personal guard and support. It was often amusing. “I’ll ask my mother to send you some of our kimchi, and you’ll understand it was all worth it. She has a special recipe. And our girls are prettier than theirs!”

  “What do you know about our girls?” the prince laughed. They had visited the same teahouses.

  “I know the Manchus still take tribute in slaves,” frowned Han Jae-uk. They had spoken of this more than once while out hunting or walking in the fields, far from the attentive ears of Qing servants. “Especially female slaves. If our girls weren’t prettier than theirs, they wouldn’t insist on it so much.”

  “We will change that,” Yi Hyun promised. “Give me time, and I will fix everything.”

  “Well, the first step is already taken.” Han Jae-uk turned to watch at his turn the shapes of green hills and fields sliding past the ship. “To launch the Northern Campaign, one must go south first, right?”

  Yi Hyun instinctively looked around to make sure no one had overheard his friend’s careless words. The Northern Campaign against Great Qing — his dream and goal for his future reign — could only be possible under the strictest secrecy.

  “What will you do when we dock?” Yi Hyun decided to change the subject. “You don’t have to accompany me to the palace.”

  “Well, we are going to travel to the capital together,” shrugged Han Jae-uk. “After that, I’m planning to visit Ji-ho. But only after I’ve hugged my family senseless. My mother will smother me, you’ll see!”

  “Why Ji-ho in particular?” the prince asked, surprised. Those two had never seemed especially close. The quiet son of the Seonggyungwan rector preferred books to people.

  “Oh, you haven’t heard yet, Hyun-gun?” Han Jae-uk waved an arm above his head. “Hey! Ji-ho, come here!”

  A slender young man grimaced with mild annoyance, set aside his book, and rose to his feet, steadying himself on a crate tied to the deck. His sky-blue hanbok was especially striking against the summer sky.

  “Prince,” he nodded to Yi Hyun. “What do you need, Jae-uk?”

  “Not me.” Jae-uk flashed a broad grin. “You haven’t shown Hyun-gun yet, have you? Go on, don’t be shy. He won’t have time for it later.”

  “It’s rather…” Ji-ho hesitated and looked away.

  “Are you going to explain what’s happening?” Yi Hyun couldn’t hold it any longer.

  “He’s getting married,” laughed Han Jae-uk.

  Yi Hyun raised his brows. In their residence in Beijing, a young man could marry a ruined tea-house Han girl, or an arrogant Manchu woman from the street, or a tongue-tied Mongol who watered flowers. None of them had seemed suitable for a young nobleman.

  “My parents found me a bride,” Ji-ho explained softly, his cheeks turning pink. “They even sent a portrait.”

  He reached into his robe and drew out a small scroll on emerald silk. A pretty, round-faced young beauty looked out from the portrait.

  “She’s the niece of the Minister of Taxation,” Ji-ho said. “Lovely, isn’t she? I don’t even know if I’ll be able to be liked by her…”

  “I’ll order her to like you.” Yi Hyun lowered his brows in mock severity, which made his friends burst with laughter.

  “And also I want mandarins,” Han Jae-uk announced suddenly. “They say on Jeju Island they’re this big, the size of a fist!”

  To prove his point, he showed his own impressive fist.

  “You’ll have to wait till autumn,” Ji-ho noted.

  “I’m not in a hurry,” Han Jae-uk assured him. “Now that we won’t have to watch over our prince, I’ll have plenty of time!”

  Oh, if only any of them knew that there was no time left at all.