Chapter 25
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The rest of the afternoon passes quickly—Wakaba may be shy, but she isn't stupid. Which is a relief, since Azula can't tolerate stupid people. For Wakaba's revised essay, they decide to focus on how the Fire Nation's invasion affected Qima—a difficult task, since all Wakaba's textbooks were written in the Fire Nation. Azula's mind is reeling with the implications of her shift in point of view. She's not ready to admit everything the Fire Nation has done in the past hundred years has been wrong, but still…suddenly, Zuko's decision to end the war makes more sense. Azula wishes she could talk to him. Across the room, Wakaba stands on tiptoe to reach a dusty basket of scrolls on a top shelf. Azula leans back in her chair, staring out the window as the snow continues to fall peacefully. In the quiet, however, the itching need for yapian creeps in. She scratches her arm.
"…and I think my great-grandfather kept a diary?" Wakaba says. "About when Qima was first taken over by the Fire Nation?"
Normally, the diary of some Earth Kingdom clan chieftain wouldn't interest Azula in the slightest. But today, the idea of hearing a voice from the past piques her curiosity. Once, not long after her mother left, Father showed her Great-Grandfather Sozin's letters home. What if Sozin had not been the conqueror, but was instead the conquered? What would he think and feel?
"I remember my grandmother said the Fire Nation came because of our river?" Wakaba says, bringing over the basket of scrolls. She sets them on the table, and a faint haze of dust rises up with the disturbance. "They thought the Qima River would make for fertile farmland, but they were wrong?"
"Why wrong?" Azula says, picking a scroll up at random.
"Well..." Wakaba. "Because the river's floods are actually really irregular? Which makes growing crops really difficult?"
"Huh." Azula tries to unfurl a scroll, but her hands are shaking again. A physical and sudden chill makes her shudder. The need for yapian that's been tapping at the back of her brain for the past hours starts to pound in earnest. But now is not a good time, she's finally talking about something interesting…
"…and a dozen people actually died in the flood last year…"
"Really?" Azula shivers again, thin fingers clutching the paper. But she doesn't have any more yapian in her hut in the forest. Where can she get some? What if Temurin is out? Panic starts to rise in the back of her throat. Wakaba chatters on obliviously, unaware that at any minute Azula is going to fall apart. Mayor Sota must have some yapian somewhere.
"…and really it would be better if the river flowed more to the east about a half-league away…"
Azula stands abruptly. "Bathroom," she excuses herself, and jogs out of the sitting room.
"What?" Wakaba bleats. Azula ignores her and speeds into the hall.
This is crazy. She doesn't even know if Mayor Sota smokes yapian, or if Sota keeps her store in her house, or where. Her bedroom? Azula winds her way to the back of the mansion, her footsteps echoing on the plank floors. The house is made entirely of wood and would have been grand a hundred years ago. But the painted beams are peeling, and the ornate carvings in ceiling corners are dusty and dull. Wakaba was right—Qima clearly hasn't prospered for decades. Following nothing but instinct, Azula throws open a door, and finds an empty room, sheets covering old furniture. Not Sota's bedroom. Desperately, she tries door after door. A study. Unused bedroom. Formal dining hall. The gnawing obsession takes her over, she's sweating, entire head throbbing. She digs her nails into her own skin, drawing blood.
Azula bursts into a chamber dominated by an ancient-looking canopy bed carved with dragons. Above the bed is an ink brush painting, several meters long, depicting a landscape. Tiny ink figures fish by a river village, dashes of color illuminating a hat or a dress. But on the right side of the painting…Fire Nation ships sail down the river, decks full of soldiers, painted in stark colours of black and red and orange as they set the river afire. Only Mayor Sota is this obsessed with Fire Nation.
Praying to all the spirits that Sota is unoriginal, Azula heads straight for the bed. She lifts a mattress edge. And then another one. Nothing. Azula ransacks the nightstand, knocking over bottles of face powders and creams. No, no, no. She buries her face deeply into a pillow and screams. Wakaba is probably wondering where she is. What is her excuse for being here? Azula lies there, face in an old woman's pillow, and breathes in short panicked gasps. The earth turns beneath her feet. I am going to die right here.
And then she smells it. The heady, sweet scent of relief. Azula feels a lump in the pillow, just under her left eye. Please. She rips open the pillow ravenously. Feathers fly like falling petals in spring, but all Azula cares about is the small package hiding in the snowy down. Release is so close, she can taste it…entire body shaking, Azula pinches off a small portion of the raw yapian and places it on her tongue. It dissolves into instantaneous relief.
A relaxed, golden feeling spreads from Azula's throat her torso, down to each one of her fingers and toes. She slumps onto the floor and laughs at the explosion of feathers she's created. How silly. After savouring the feeling of sleepy blankness for a moment, Azula sets about picking up each feather, rubbing the tiny little quills under her fingers. Magnificent. Many tiger-geese gave their lives for this pillow…
Hands full of feathers, Azula looks around for a place to hide the tattered remains of the pillow. There is no putting this mess back together. Fortunately, two sliding doors open to a balcony at the other end of the room; outside, the feathers can mix with the snow. Azula breezes over. She wedges her foot in between the two doors, and, with difficulty, kicks the door sideways and open. She stumbles onto the balcony overlooking the courtyard, and throws the feathers in the air with gleeful abandon. The tiger-goose feathers fly up, dissolve into the snow, then spiral down, down, down and land on dozens of red armoured shoulders.
Red armour. Azula's eyes bulge. There, in Mayor Sota's courtyard, is full company of Fire Nation soldiers.
By early evening Altan has had enough of logging in the snow. He tromps back to the house, the snow now reaching to his ankle. He'll split the wood tomorrow, then bring it into the village to sell. As he climbs the stairs to Temurin's home, he grins ironically. He bets Jinlian's husband will be his biggest customer—it takes a lot of fuel to keep a blacksmith's fire going. Altan pulls off his boots and steps inside, his wet socks squelching unpleasantly on the floor. Nekana sits on the floor, stretching out her leg, while Temurin holds a pestle slackly in one hand, clearly distracted by what Nekana is saying. Sitting at the table next to Hegane, Jirou coughs significantly and glares at Altan.
"There were at least fifty of them," Nekana says. "Which is frankly overkill for a village of this size."
"Fifty what?" Altan asks.
"Fire Nation soldiers. From the base at Taiyang," Nekana answers, not even bothering to look at him. Altan grinds his teeth.
"They are probably here to make sure the vote goes smoothly," Temurin says wearily.
"Oh please!" Jirou snaps. "A fifty Fire Nation troops here are you're not worried?"
"Come on, Temurin," Altan says. "Don't be so naïve."
"And you don't be so quick to overreact," Nekana cuts in before Temurin can respond for himself. Why can't she take my side for once?
"Jirou and Altan are right," Hegane adds, putting down her complicated knotwork. "We should at least ask why they are here." Nekana frowns, and Hegane shrugs. "What?" she asks bluntly. "I've lived in Qima for thirty years. I don't belong to some sort of Fire Nation club."
"Mayor Sota must have asked for extra troops to supervise the vote next week," Temurin says.
"More like rig the vote," Altan mutters, mostly to get Nekana's attention. It works.
"Oh please, not again," she says scathingly. "Zuko wouldn't order his soldiers to interfere—"
"Spirits, Nekana, stop talking like you know him!" Altan snaps. "It's not like you have some sort of…of…special access to information. You're just as clueless as the rest of us. So stop saying things like they're facts when they're just your opinions!" Fire flickers in Nekana's eyes.
"You have no idea what you're talking about," Nekana says coldly.
"Neither do you," Altan shoots back. Bubbles of anger roil in his stomach. He knows his reaction is disproportionate to her slight, but how she dismisses him, how she refuses his help, how she sits there smugly like she knows everything when she's really just an addict…he didn't even know how angry he was until now. He and Nekana glare at each other. Her full lips curl unpleasantly.
Temurin stands and walks casually in between Nekana and Altan, breaking the heated staring contest. He's still holding a pestle, stained with bloody red beet paste. "I'll talk to some of the neighbors when I pick Haojun up from school," Temurin says. "In a reasoned, measured way. For all we know, the soldiers could just be passing through."
"Right," says Jirou sarcastically.
"That's it. Jirou, go outside and split some wood," Hegane orders.
"In the snow?" Jirou complains.
"Was I unclear?"
Sulkily, Jirou throws on a coat and pushes past Temurin. Altan follows him out the door. He'd rather freeze his fingers off than be around Nekana for another minute. Temurin can go be reasoned and measured all he wants. But Altan isn't going to stay idle. By unspoken agreement, Jirou waits while Altan redoes the laces on his boots, and together they crunch through the frozen grass towards the woodpile.
"So we're definitely writing to Mila and Crooked Zhao about these soldiers, right?" Jirou says. He jerks the axe out of a stump.
Altan lets his frustration with Nekana, with this town, and with his mother simmer inside him for a few seconds. It's like his own wood-fire fuel.
"Absolutely."