A Tool and a Warrior
Han Myeong-hoe drew something from his document chest and handed it to Ga-ryeong.
"Have a look at this."
It was a short dagger.
Its sheath and hilt were carved from black ebony, unadorned yet worked with such meticulous delicacy that one could sense the skill and devotion of a true master craftsman.
Ga-ryeong drew the blade.
A dazzling blue gleam flashed along it with a clean, crisp shimmer.
Ga-ryeong turned the blade over, examining every inch of it, then slowly nodded. Before long, he offered the dagger back to Han Myeong-hoe.
"A famed blade, without question."
"Indeed."
Han Myeong-hoe smiled faintly. "But what completes a famed blade is the hand that wields it. however fine a sword may be, what use is it in the grip of someone who cannot master it? Now then, Ga-ryeong—what would you say is the difference between a mere fighter and a true man of arms?"
Ga-ryeong regarded Han Myeong-hoe steadily.
"A fighter, broadly speaking, is like this sword—a tool. Among them you find crude blades hammered out roughly by half-trained smiths, and you find treasures like this, a blade renowned across the realm. But at heart, you see, a tool is a tool. It has no mind of its own. No conviction either."
Han Myeong-hoe raised the dagger upright before him.
With an unwavering gaze, he aimed the edge so that it divided Ga-ryeong's face neatly down the middle.
"Look here. Today this blade rests in my hand, but tomorrow it may pass into another's. And if it does—if what is mine today ends up clutched in someone else's grip tomorrow—what guarantee is there that it won't come for my throat? No... of course there is none."
Han Myeong-hoe shook his head slowly.
"A tool moves according to the will of whoever holds it, the moment it enters his hand. A fighter is much the same. But what of a man of arms? A true man of arms, now."
Tapping the desk lightly with the hand that did not hold the blade, Han Myeong-hoe went on.
"A man of arms has a firm core within him. A flame that does not spill over however it is shaken, and does not go out however hard the wind may howl. The world is full of fighters, but men of arms are few—you could count them on your fingers. And among those rare few, I count you, Han Ga-ryeong."
"You honor me beyond my deserts."
"Honor me? Honor me, you say?"
Han Myeong-hoe clicked his tongue.
"After everything you've done this time, it is that word, of all things, that disappoints me most. Am I to take it my eye for men was wrong? Ga-ryeong... come closer. Come here, closer."
As Ga-ryeong drew near, Han Myeong-hoe spoke quickly, his voice low but weighted with force.
"The reason I wish to keep you despite this affair is that you are a man of arms. Were you merely a fighter of some skill, I'd have men like you stacked to my knees by now—though in pure ability, I daresay no fighter in Joseon could match you. The point is this: I do not see you as merely a man with a sword. You are of a different order altogether."
Han Myeong-hoe leaned back.
Ga-ryeong made no reply.
"Letting Prince Nosan go was, I believe, a display of the dignity you carry as a man of arms. But consider that debt settled—the old bond passed down through your family line since your ancestors' day. Call it loyalty, call it sentiment, it makes no difference; all of it is cleared now. From this point on, I want you to weigh the bonds that you yourself have built. Between you and me, that is."
Han Myeong-hoe paused, then looked Ga-ryeong squarely in the eye.
"Can you do that for me?"
"Yes, my lord."
A look of satisfaction spread across Han Myeong-hoe's face.
"There will be no second act of leniency toward Prince Nosan?"
"There will not."
"Good."
Han Myeong-hoe nodded, as though that answer alone were enough. "And I, for my part, will ask nothing further about this matter. Go and rest."
Ga-ryeong withdrew in silence.
Left alone, Han Myeong-hoe drummed his fingers lightly on the table and sank into thought.
Prince Nosan's escape is a thorn in my side, but he is a boy of sixteen all the same. There is no small chance he will perish before the winter is out. And even if he does flee Joseon soil, where could he possibly flee to? Let me take comfort instead in what this affair has confirmed: that Han Ga-ryeong is mine, wholly and without question.
So Han Myeong-hoe consoled himself for the loss.
Yet at this very moment, the man regarded as Joseon's supreme treacherer and master schemer was mistaken about one thing.
Hong-wi and Ho-in were making slow but steady progress.
Ho-in fretted constantly over missing the appointed day with the collaborator waiting in Wonju, but the road was anything but easy. The terrain was rough, and Ho-in could hardly claim to know the way well himself. More than once he took a wrong turn and had to retrace his steps.
Ironically, it was Hong-wi—source of the greatest worry during the planning stage—who was keeping up best of all.
In truth, he was enduring astonishingly well. No, he had already surpassed mere endurance.
Who on earth would take this man for one raised in pampered luxury within palace walls?
Ho-in clicked his tongue in disbelief.
The change Hong-wi had shown in a matter of days was remarkable. A man who had known only the dishes lovingly prepared by the kitchen maids of the royal suragan now crossed rough terrain with ease, chewing even raw grain without complaint.
Calluses had formed on his soft hands and feet, and strength was gathering in his limbs, bound about with straw rope. His once-pale face had tanned to the point where it radiated a certain vitality.
Had it not been said that hardship makes a boy into a man? This youth, who had lost everything at sixteen and been driven into flight, was growing by taking the blue mountains and wild fields, the clean mountain air, for his nourishment.
Like his ancestors before him, Hong-wi, too, carried within him the mettle of a great man who could endure adversity.
It had been nearly ten days since they left Yeongwol.
They spent a night in a shanty on the shoulder of Mt. Chiak, on a ridge overlooking Wonju—likely a temporary shelter put up by herb gatherers.
Ho-in's eyes snapped open.
Hong-wi had vanished somewhere.
Seizing the sword he kept at his pillow, Ho-in scrambled to his feet.
"Your Majesty!"
"You're awake."
Ever since leaving Yeongwol, it had become Hong-wi's habit to take a walk around their camp each morning. The cool, crisp dawn air was bracing beyond measure, the morning dew cold as ice. The early sunlight filtering down between the occasional falling leaves was almost blinding.
It felt as though he had been born anew.
Ho-in, for his part, felt his chest tighten anew.
In the morning light, Hong-wi stood with a dignity that belied his sixteen years. To Ho-in, who had never laid eyes on a king before, Hong-wi bore himself with more true regal bearing than anyone he could imagine.
Even his own father, Jeon Jung-jae, could not compare to the majesty Hong-wi now carried.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"I was thinking of the eunuchs and maids I left behind in Yeongwol. And of my wife."
The desperate flight, the sudden ambush by assassins, Lady Hyobin, the death of Jeon Jung-jae—all of it had come crashing down upon them one after another, far too swiftly. Looking back now, it seemed like a midsummer night's dream, growing more real with every passing day.
Night after night, he called to mind, one by one, those who had served him so faithfully. And his wife, Hyobin—she whom he would never see again.
The moment the face of his gentle wife, who had wept as she bade him farewell at Hwanyangjeong, rose before him, Hong-wi felt as though his heart were being torn apart.
"When I think of the suffering they will endure because I fled... I am truly troubled, wondering whether it was right to run for the sake of this one life of mine. Perhaps it would have been better to meet my death there—"
"You must not say such things!"
Hearing his own voice ring out so sternly, Ho-in flinched. The next moment, his face reddened and he bowed his head.
"Forgive me. I beg Your Majesty to pardon my insolence."
"There is nothing to pardon."
Hong-wi suddenly remembered that the father of the man before him, too, had given his life trying to pull him out of danger. His life was no longer his own alone. Was it not now the possession of every one of those who had thrown away their lives for him?
"My thinking was shallow, and I showed you a weak side of myself. You're right—my life is no longer mine alone. It is owed to your father."
"Please, do not say such things! That is not why I..."
Ho-in cried out, his voice choking.
"And yet it is the truth."
For a moment, neither man could find a word to say. Complicated emotions churned between them.
At last, Ho-in spoke. "You should eat something first, Your Majesty."
"Thank you."
Breakfast, such as it was, consisted of a handful of wild mountain raspberries picked the day before. Hong-wi took them and tipped them into his mouth, savoring deeply the tart, refreshing taste that lingered on his tongue.
"That place down there is Wonju. With no walls around it, we should have little trouble getting in."
"So it is."
Hong-wi gazed down as well. As the seat of the Gangwon Provincial Office, the town of Wonju was of respectable size. Even so, no wall enclosed the town. Fortresses of earth or stone were normally raised at strategically vital points, but rear-country towns sometimes went without—and Wonju was one of these.
"My only worry, Your Majesty, is whether the collaborator is still in Wonju at all."
"We can only hope he is. He knows as well as anyone that the journey from Yeongwol to this place cannot be measured in fixed days. Come, let us go down."
"Your Majesty!"
Ho-in blocked his path. "Allow me to go down and make inquiries. Should anything happen—"
"—I am to flee, yes? I know exactly what you would say. But I am coming with you."
"Your Majesty!"
A faint smile played at the corners of Hong-wi's mouth.
"Since we left Yeongwol, you and I have all but shared one life between us. If we die, we die together; if we live, we live together. And above all—if I go without you, how much farther do you imagine I would get?"
"Your Majesty..."
"And while I am still 'Your Majesty,' you will obey my command."
After a moment, Ho-in lowered his head.
"I am moved beyond words. It is only that I... but I will follow your command."
"Then let us be off."
The descent took longer than expected. By the time they came down to the road leading into the town of Wonju, it was late afternoon.
The closer they drew to the town, the more uneasy Ho-in became. What if someone found them suspicious?
After days of hacking through mountain trails, they looked for all the world like a pair of vagabond beggars—at a glance, nothing more than herb gatherers or country folk.
Even so, word of Hong-wi's escape must have spread far and wide by now.
Wonju had no walls worth the name, but it did have a gate—erected less for defense than for administrative purposes, to keep track of those coming and going.
A few provincial soldiers were checking travelers at the gate, demanding identification tags. But as their indifferent expressions made plain, they showed little enthusiasm for the task.
They truly never imagined we'd walk right in through the Provincial Office's own town.
Ho-in smiled bitterly. Not that they had any identification tags to show in the first place.
Hong-wi, meanwhile, was fingering the tally hidden inside his breast. It was the one Han Ga-ryeong had given him; after a moment's thought, he concluded that this was not the time to use it.
Their appearance was simply too shabby. Which left only one course.
"Let's go over there."
Slipping past the soldiers' eyes, they vaulted over a crumbling low earthen wall. No one spared them a glance.
The two men looked at each other. They had actually made it into Wonju!
"Well, we've somehow reached Wonju—now where do we go? The sun will be setting soon."
Ho-in had been thinking the same thing. Where would the collaborator be?
In this age, travelers were few. Not many were fortunate enough to journey far for pleasure, and with neither flourishing commerce nor good roads, even merchants were scarce. Those who did travel generally lodged with relatives or acquaintances, or asked a night's shelter at the home of some well-to-do family in a town that looked kindly.
The problem was where the collaborator might be staying in Wonju. There was no chance he was lodged for days at the home of a local notable. Which meant he might well be staying with yet another collaborator's family—but among so many houses, which one?
Just then, something caught Hong-wi's eye.
"There."
Ho-in turned to look. The soldiers were trudging off down the street. Ho-in's heart jumped into his throat, and he clutched at Hong-wi's sleeve.
"No, look where they're going."
"What?"
Ho-in tilted his head, uncomprehending—then quickly caught on. The soldiers were filing into a shabby-looking building, from which lively laughter spilled out. It seemed to be a tavern that sold drink.
"A tavern?"
"I'd wager that if the collaborator isn't a local, his chances of standing out in a town like this are high. If you want to hear the talk, there's no better place than a spot like that, wouldn't you say?"
"Ah—clever."
Ho-in nodded. In a town of this size, few households could afford to sell drink. The place where off-duty soldiers went to wet their throats was surely one of those few—perhaps the only tavern in the whole town.
Could they perhaps pick up some clue there?
"Wait a moment!"
As Ho-in, bright with hope, started toward the tavern, Hong-wi stopped him.
"There's a problem. The way we're dressed."
"Ah."
Only then did Ho-in remember their state. Days of tearing through trailless mountains had left their clothes torn in several places and caked with dirt. Walking into a tavern in such a state would win them nothing but ill treatment.
"Do not worry. We have clothes to change into."
"Then we're in luck."
They changed in a secluded spot. When they had finished, they looked no finer than young gentlemen of means, perhaps—but presentable enough as the sons of country gentry, come to the provincial office on some business and seeking a night's lodging.
"This will do. Let's go in."
They stopped before the tavern's front gate, and Ho-in called out.
"Hello the house! Is the master in?"
"Who's asking? The sun's about to set..."
A serving man shuffled out, giving the party a sidelong look and answering with a scowl. When the sun went down, the only light was pine-torch flame, and even that was precious in these times. Even idlers who came to drink had to make their way home at dusk.
The man wrinkled his nose. "What've you come for?"
"We had business to report at the government office, but as you can see we've arrived late. So we came hoping to put up for the night."
"Well now, that'd be for the master to decide. But have you rice for cooking, or firewood?"
Naturally, they had nothing of the sort. The man went on indifferently.
"If you haven't, you'd do better to go beg a night's sleep at that gentleman's gate over yonder."
Ho-in found himself in a bind. Under ordinary circumstances the man would have been right—but they had come in search of information.
"Excuse me."
Hong-wi spoke up.