Zhenjin and his entourage were on the Imperial Highway heading east, back to Xina. It was the last harvest before the winter. The hillside was resplendent in autumn colors, and tea ceremonies were being held in pavilions where the views were magnificent. The vassals rode their horses at a leisurely pace, enjoying the weather and the beautiful countryside.

  "My father built Mahananda to watch the sunset and the moon rise," Zhenjin bragged, gesturing toward the beautiful pavilion they were approaching.

  "In all my years inland, I have enjoyed autumn the most. We don't have these four seasons on the Malaking Dagat (Great Sea)," Urduja told Zhenjin. "When I return home to Tawalesi, I will take Tanggol with me."

  "You're not going anywhere without me, Urduja. You will teach me to surf, and I will bring a company of horses to Tawalesi so you can have your own stable. Then all will know you are a Khan."

  Tears welled in her eyes. "My Prince..." Urduja was momentarily speechless; Zhenjin was saying she was a Khan. "You are the Great Khan... you honor me," she said, her voice breaking.

  Zhenjin rode beside her. "You will go home, Urduja, I promise you," he said, sensing her homesickness.

  "Zhenjin Khazan... my lord, my brother... I have been here for some time now, and everyone has been so kind. I did not expect such kindness from strangers. I have become Kharak; I am tethered to my horse. I didn't expect to be loved by vassal heirs I now consider family. Yet, I long for the sea. All brown people are called to the sea. We own no land."

  "And the Paraluman (The Mermaid)?" Zhenjin asked curiously.

  "They stayed on Sunda. The Medang is the royal house now. But the Naga Queen, Shima Putri Rani, is older than the Medang, the Madjapahits, and the Tawalesi. She is the oldest. We were once one great family, but because we played with gods, we were set adrift and floated to where we are now. The Kalaliman divides us. On our outriggers, we set off to find land; we found none but those rocks, and there we stayed. We crossed the Kalaliman (The Deep) safely."

  "To cross the equator—that is the greatest adventure," Zhenjin mused.

  "We will do it together, Zhenjin. I must, if I am to be Mutya (Queen/Pearl). I have to cross and receive the blessing of the Putri Rani Naga Shima. If you come with me, you will be tattooed."

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  "Ah, I want a tattoo. Is the sea beautiful?"

  "Beautiful and deadly. It's for dying men who love to live, if you understand."

  "For people who live on the edge," Zhenjin added. "Yes. We all die."

  "Yes," Urduja smiled, "but the Tawalesi want to die surfing."

  "I think I am ready to do the same, Urduja."

  Huaizong and Tan Po had lost sight of the assassins, who had fled Ranjpur following the murder of Kalana. The two decided to proceed to Dharla, betting that Zalir would keep his osprey near the river. However, in the small town of Dharla, they found no trace of him. Zalir and the Madjapahits had vanished.

  The two men headed north, sticking close to the riverbank and doubling their pace. They set camp and spent the evening in the wild, rolling themselves in fishing nets they had brought from Bogura. They hung the nets from trees like hammocks, which made for a surprisingly comfortable bed given the circumstances.

  On the second morning, they spotted a shape in the sky.

  “Is it the osprey? The right one?” Huaizong asked, squinting.

  Tan Po smiled. “Yes. Finally, there you are!” His hunch had paid off.

  A specter—a tall, skinny, dark man in a desert dishdasha with long flowing hair—appeared on a horse, a black falcon perched on his gauntlet.

  "It's Do?an! What news?" Zhenjin hailed him.

  "Good evening, my lord. Good evening, Queen Dusshela and Prince Mahintha." Do?an bowed but remained mounted.

  "You're a ghastly specter, Do?an. You look like the Grim Reaper," Mahintha said aloud.

  "Well, the news I bring is indeed grim. Sambodji has attacked Chittor and has killed Akbar the Great."

  "What?!" Dusshela gasped. "Akbar is dead? Oh, such sad news. He was a just ruler. You must be mistaken. Chittor is his daughter's palace... Sambodji, that wild goat, attacked his own daughter?"

  "Are we safe?" Raji’s uncles asked nervously.

  "Yes, Uncle," Raji said with flair, trying to flex his muscles. "We are with Zhenjin and the vassal heirs. We are invincible."

  Do?an continued, "He attacked Chittor while the newlyweds were honeymooning. He set the palace on fire."

  "That's an old trick," Dusshela remarked.

  "But she is his daughter!" the Tawalesi girls pleaded in chorus.

  "Sambodji has twelve wives and perhaps thirty children—" Do?an informed them.

  "Only?" Dusshela cut in. "Gandahari gave birth to one hundred and one children, all soldiers ready to fight."

  Zhenjin looked at Dusshela. "Yes, I have heard such stories."

  "Chittor took days to burn," Do?an reported.

  "If she burned in Chittor, they would have found her jewelry," Mahintha suggested. "As Akbar's wife, she would have been covered in jewels—enough to make it difficult for her to walk. They would have seen the gold, at least."

  "Let us hope. But Sambodji had sealed all exits, and no one was seen fleeing the palace."