[i][b]Six months ago[/b][/i]
Zhoa hurled herself over the wire fence. The pebbled under her feet shifted with an audible crunch. She raced forward, slamming her shoulder into the door ahead of her. It gave with a loud *bang* and she was in. Down the hall, turn left, *ratatatatat* She swept her SMG in a wide arc as the bewildered Irodians tried to move or sit up in their beds. She missed one; he tried to duck behind the bed but caught another salvo in the temple. Six occupiers dead, the walls and sheets stained with blood.

No time to stop, he turned and dashed forward. Around the corner was another Irodian; he went down with a tight burst to the stomach. Down the hall, sweep the rooms. One room, two rooms. Her hair stuck to the side of her face, sweat saturated her uniform. No time to stop. Keep going, kill as many as possible before they reacted.

The next door was locked. She riddled it with fire then kicked it open. The room on the other side was small, barely bigger than a closet. A radio set was purched on the heavy wooden desk, now shattered by bullets and stained with blood. The operator lay face-down on the table bleeding from half a dozen bullet wounds.

The next door lead outside again. Three Irodian tanks sat in a row with no one to drive them – she had just killed the operators. The bitter clip of gunfire and the cries of men and women were all around her now. Zhoa ejected the magazine from her SMG and reached for a new one. She stumbled and dropped the clip as the earth shook. A deafening roar sent her ears whining for a moment. A magazine must have gone up - yes, there was a billowing cloud of black smoke barely two blocks away. 

A squad of revolutionaries ran by. Zhoa joined them. Some Irodians were trying to blockade the street, hiding behind a delivery truck. She laid down covering fire from behind a piece of debris while one of the others threw a grenade. 

The streets were full of bodies, the smell of blood and gunpowder in the air. The squad slowed to a stop. She wondered why, briefly. Shouldn’t they be moving?
“Up there.” One of the others pointed.

The imperial palace was unmistakable. It was a magnificent building adorned with vibrant colors and art, a testament to ancient Xulao architecture still standing amid the concrete-filled city of Irodian design. Several tanks painted green and yellow – revolutionary colors – were parked in front of it. A flag with the crest of the Cyzin was flying from the highest stories, visible across the entire city. Xingyi belonged to the Cyzin once again.


[i][b]Two Weeks Ago[/b][/i]

Fen Zhoa’s face as she suppressed the frantic itchiness of her new uniform. It wasn’t just new, it was fresh out of a sweatshop, the starchy stiffness and fresh creases still rubbing against her newly washed skin. Zhoa didn’t think she’d ever been this clean in her life. The grime of war and combat was washed away, replaced by a trim uniform, a jade hair decoration and a medal she couldn’t remember earning, but which her superiors had made very clear she was to wear to the ceremony. Her entire unit stood side by side, one of many that now filled the palace courtyard in neat, uniformed rows.

Somewhere a drum beat started. Many great drums began to beat in unison. Then the sound of flutes joined in with fast, haunting trills, totally unlike the music of the foreigners.

The great, bronze gates at the entrance to the palace plaza opened. The doors moaned as if the moulded dragon relief upon the doors were alive, creaking open to permit the Empress procession.

First came the drummers themselves; tall, strong men carrying great drums that they beat themselves. Behind them came the flutists with silver instruments. Then there were dancers in the old style, waving beautiful cloth around as they spun. Then, finally, there was the royal palanquin.
The Empress could barely be seen within it, but the ornate wood was beautifully carved and gilded with gold. It took twelve strong men to carry the thing – Zhoa had heard it was armored. Following around it were the royal guard and the Empress’ handmaidens, dressed in elaborate dresses of fine silk dyed in green and yellow. Lastly were the new ministers of the court. Zhoa recognized most of them; she had fought under both Zhan Arika and Lon Fen. There probably wasn’t a person there who didn’t recognize the leaders of the revolution.

Music playing and dancers dancing, the procession reached the stairs of the palace. The palanquin turned and stopped at the foot of the steps. The drumming ceased.

Out stepped the last remaining Cyzin on the planet, heir to a dynasty spanning centuries, the pride and joy of an entire nation. The little girl was clothed in royal robes of gold, green and red, adorned in jewels any one of which would have made a thief rich. With poise astonishing for one so young she exited the carriage and ascended, followed only by Lon Fen.

The girl knelt before the altar at the top of the steps. Lon Fen stepped past her, praying in his whispy voice to Zhao Cek, god of order, as he lit candles at the altar where the jade statue of a great dragon stood. Before it was a golden crown.

“Great Zhao Cek, today we coronate your heir. By your design the Cyzin were sent to bring order to your realm, you granted them the eyes of spirit and the crown of order. That agreement was broken by idolaters who cared not for your sacred plan. Today, we restore our bond!” He stepped back and clapped his hands, bowing again to the god.

The empress stood. She stepped forward and seized the crown in both hands. “I am Cyzin, as my mother before me and her mother before her. With the blessing of my ancestors I take the throne.” She placed the crown upon her head and turned.

“Behold Cyzin Ao!” Lon Fen declared. “Voice of Zhao Cek! Head of the House of Cyzin! And Empress of Xulao!”

Then, without prompting or instruction, the entire courtyard kowtowed. Zhoa fell to her knees and touched her head to the hard stone in front of her, as her ancestors had done for centuries before the Cyzin, and as her children would do in their time. As she lifted her head she could hear the Empress speak.

“Seventy years ago my family was slaughtered and the Irodeins took control of our lands. They rejected our gods and traditions and tried to force us to accept their own, selfish ways. They plundered our homeland, interested only in taking what they could.

"But I am here to tell you that just as the Irodeins could not destroy the Cyzin, they could not break Xulao. We have stood by our traditions and fought for our land. When the conquerors thought us broken we persevered. When they thought us defeated we made them pay in blood.
People of Xulao, we have won.

"The House of Cyzin is restored; the foreigners are defeated. Never again will we allow another to supplant our traditions in favor of our own. We have regained our land, our pride, and now our place within the world. We are no longer a colony of Irodia, we are the Federation of Xulao!”

[i][b]Present[/b][/i]

The Hall of Supreme Wisdom, as it was called, had once been the meeting hall for the Cyzin and their advisors. The Cyzin throne here was a miniature version of the enormous stone one that sat in the audience chamber. At one time the Cyzin would have sat in the throne while the retainers knelt on the floor, speaking up to their sovereign. Now a triangular wooden table had been installed and the Empress sat above it, immaculate in posture but somewhat removed from the conversation that was happening below.

“Right. I’ve called you all here because, as Ms. Cerzak is so very fond of reminding me, we have a money problem.”

“Ignoring it isn’t going to make it go away, I was just…”

“I get it.” Zhan Arika snapped at the younger woman. “You’re right, Xingyi’s port doesn’t have the capacity to export all our rice, even if we had buyers for it. And now that the civil war in Irodia is over taking the other port cities is going to be so very much harder.”

“You already have a plan, madame Zhan, or you wouldn’t have called us here.” Lon Fen said. “Out with it.”

“Right. We need allies badly. If our independence is going to stick we need international recognition and someone to keep the Irodein navy off our back when we move for the rest of Xulao.”

“We also need foreign capital if we’re going to follow your ten-year plan for developing our own civil industry.”

“That too, thank you Cerzak.”

“And who do you have in mind?”

Zhan Arika tapped her fingers along the table. She was a powerful, strongly built woman in stature as well as will. The others could see her brow furrow as she considered. She glanced up at the Empress, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Fen, I want you to send that girl of yours to the NFRU. Have her see what she can squeeze out of them.  We want official recognition as a state, military aid, industrial capital, open markets, and if we’re really lucky an alliance against Irodia.”

“Czinya? She’s one of the empress’ handmaidens now, not ‘mine’.”

“That means she’s officially one of the Empress’ representatives. Tell her she can offer them raw resources, investment opportunities, and perhaps a port for their ships. And see if she can’t send out a few feelers about a betrothal to one of the old monarchies up there.”

“A betrothal? The Empress is twelve, isn’t this a bit early?” One of the lower generals asked, with some incredulity.

“I don’t mind.”

The small voice caught the councilors off guard. The general made a hasty apology as they all bowed towards the throne.

“No.” Lon Fen replied afterward. “Her Blessed Highness understands the precariousness of her line. We need a Cyzin heir as soon as possible. By ancient tradition the age of majority is 15, and I believe it would be best if she were married as soon after that as possible.”

The general grumbled something about a “hard sell” to the other nations, but withered under Zhan Arika’s glare.

“Now that that tangent is done.” She moved right on. “I want you to go to Oussia and Ventium. Aside from the NFRU they’re the most likely to aid us. We’ll fish around for the best offers and see what comes up.”

“I’ll pack my bags.” Lon Fen said, not without a hint of sarcasm.


Six days later Lon Fen was riding north to Oussia. It would be a long, difficult trip overland, but he knew the back roads and temples along the way. A letter of introduction had been sent ahead by ship.
His former apprentice Czinya would travel to the NFRU on the Federation’s only warship – a captured Irodein vessel that had been in port when they took the city.