1

When telling the story of a life, I have to determine the right place to begin—after first deciding what constitutes “right.” After reading all the records about the legendary Sagacious Blade, and weaving the two with countless reminiscences, I think it best to begin with the Ki clan on a spring evening during the last reign of the Tan Dynasty.

The elders circled Little Twelve, a baby midway between one and two years, typically round of face and body, under a soft thatch of flyaway dark hair. He sat on the grass, fat little hands trying to touch slowly darting fireflies. As they watched, he gave up and in his palm, a light glowed into being, though no actual object could be seen there. He seemed to be offering it to the fireflies, and frowned in perplexity at their obliviousness.

The boy’s mother, looking worn and anxious, said softly, “He is good, you understand, Elder Ki. A very easy child. Except for that. And, ah, entering my dreams when he’s hungry.”

That was all she could bring herself to say in mixed company, for it was startling and perhaps even unseemly, that her baby son could puncture her dreams and present her with a highly realistic and somehow emphatic image of the milk-source he sought. Right down to the little mole on one side.

Elder Ki said, “Little Twelve appears to be a Talent.”

No one spoke, but signified agreement in sidelong glances, shifting of feet, and the nervous rubbing of the mother’s hands.

“Talent,” observed the child’s father with an uneasy expression, “seems to me to be much like dragons. Everyone admires them from afar, but no one seems prepared to have one in the house.”

The mother was quick to defend her child, in a timorous voice utterly unfamiliar, as she was as fierce on a ship’s deck when pirates attempted boarding as she was tough during practice. “He’s very good. Other than these…other things.” She fought a yawn until her jaw ached—for she had had scant sleep since the day Little Twelve made his appearance into the world.

“Things,” the baby’s Second Uncle said in stiff, disapproving tones, “like creating fires out of nothing.”

“Not fires,” objected Twelve’s father. “Light only.”

“That is even less desirable. There is something of the ghost about light which does not burn,” retorted Second Uncle. “Inauspicious.” His two boys, Five and Eight, did not trespass in so outrageous a manner—which he began to expatiate with superficially humble words belied by a hortatory tone until a significant harrumph from Elder Ki caused him to halt mid-word.

“I’ll take him,” Elder Ki stated. “He will learn strict discipline with me, until we can find someone to train a wild Talent into useful pursuit.”

The exhausted mother heard that word “strict” and said doubtfully, “I’d willingly give up the luck of my next five lives to have so esteemed a person take an interest in our troublesome son.” She clasped her hands and bowed. “But, though he’s troublesome, he is no wolf cub. When he was little more than a hundred days old, he was trying to put food in my mouth. He never minds when the older children pinch his date cakes—”

Elder Ki, who understood very well what the mother was trying to say, commented, “By strict I mean firm, not harsh. You married into our family. You could not know that never have I raised a hand in anger to any of my children.” And after accepting another heartfelt bow made in silent apology, “You must do your part, too, Twelve’s Mother; if he comes into your dreams tonight, you are to turn over and go back to sleep.”

All heads turned toward the Headman, Elder Ki’s second son, who had remained silent through this discussion. He gave a short nod, and it was decided.