Yi Hwan, Great Prince Bongrim, once the slave Cudgel, understood perfectly well that he was not taken seriously.

  His mentor had warned him at once that if the prince wished to take his proper place at court, he would first have to acquire allies. Until then, neither robes embroidered with silver nor a small retinue of a eunuch and five court ladies would mean anything. Some minister might bow to him in passing, that was part of the ritual. But if he wanted his voice to be heard and his deeds remembered, he would need support.

  Now that his elder brother had died a mysterious death, allies were doubly necessary for Yi Hwan.

  He was hardly considered an obstacle, he stood in no one’s way, so his life was not under threat. But he could do nothing either. He had tried to join the investigation, had demanded reports from the interrogators and from the Royal Medical Office… In reply he received calligraphically written refusals, since, allegedly, the honorable interrogators and physicians lacked the authority to provide him with copies of the documents that interested him.

  It turned out that the title of prince in Joseon meant nothing beyond the size of one’s bedchamber and the assurance of regular meals. Not insignificant, but clearly insufficient to uncover the truth of the Crown Prince’s death.

  When the king announced that he intended to hold readings with several distinguished Confucian scholars and desired the presence of both princes, Yi Hwan understood that this was his chance to assert himself. He needed to make a favorable impression on those present. That would allow him to become visible in the eyes of his grandfather, Chief State Councillor Kim, which in turn might help Yi Hwan secure the support of the late Crown Prince’s faction.

  He turned the pages of the books that might be discussed again and again. He murmured Chinese maxims, moving his lips. He practiced dipping his brush into the inkstone without staining his sleeves black. The night before departing for the palace, he scarcely slept.

  “Great Prince Dojun! Great Prince Bongrim!” a loud-voiced eunuch announced, and the brothers followed one after the other into the large pavilion where the scholars had already gathered.

  Yi Hwan, of course, bowed and allowed Yi Hyun to enter first. He was older, and he was, well, a true prince, not a washed and groomed slave Cudgel. Yi Hwan still half expected someone to point at him and shout that he was an impostor who had no place in the palace.

  Yi Hyun, incidentally, wore no mourning.

  It seemed that no one in the palace, apart from Yi Hwan and his small retinue, remembered that the Crown Prince had died not long ago. It was strange, for it violated ritual and accepted tradition. Though, if Yi Yun had been as much a stranger in the palace as Yi Hwan, one could understand why they tried to erase his traces as quickly as possible. Yi Hwan intended not to allow that, and it seemed he was already succeeding.

  At the very least, his modest white mourning stood out starkly against the colorful silks of the assembled guests. Around the princes, whispers spread like ripples on water.

  “You have not visited the palace in some time, Great Prince Bongrim,” Yi Hyun addressed him quietly. They sat in the center of the pavilion at neighboring tables, like students at an examination, and their conversation was surely audible to the guests.

  “I regret it, Great Prince Dojun,” Yi Hwan replied, bowing toward him. “I should visit you and Father more often.”

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  In truth, throughout his entire period of study at the monastery, Yi Hwan had returned to the palace only once, at the funeral of the Crown Prince. When he arrived, the body had already been placed in the coffin, and he had not even been able to bid his brother a proper farewell. That saddened him.

  “Since you are here, share dinner with me,” Yi Hyun said. It sounded less like an invitation than an order.

  “It is a great honor, Great Prince,” Yi Hwan bowed again, and they both fell silent.

  Soon the king appeared.

  Yi Hwan still found it difficult to think of him as Father. He felt a little afraid of that stern, gaunt man. He looked better than at their first meeting, yet still seemed worn down by prolonged illness.

  The princes rose in unison and bowed. The king seated himself upon the high cushioned chair prepared for him, and the readings began.

  At first Yi Hwan observed. It did not take long for him to understand that nothing was expected of him. One of the scholars read or quoted a Chinese passage, which was then discussed, and Yi Hyun’s opinion was also requested. The king and ministers cleared their throats, stroked their beards, and nodded. Yi Hwan seemed to remain invisible.

  “I disagree,” he declared at last, meeting several startled gazes.

  The discussion had turned to taxes and how to increase them. As though the peasants were not hungry enough already.

  “Great Prince Bongrim has a kind heart, but lacks experience in governance,” one of the lecturers remarked with a smile.

  “To govern a state requires resources. These garments and this food do not create themselves,” another nodded, as though speaking to a child.

  “Did Emperor Wen-di of Han not rejoice at the sight of a thousand pillars of smoke rising from the valley?” Yi Hwan countered. “Was the wealth of Han measured in courtly garments, or in the well-fed subjects over whose hearths rice was boiling?”

  Emperor Wen’s favored consort had worn plain garments out of frugality. All understood what Yi Hwan meant.

  “Yes, Great Prince Bongrim is correct in saying that in the time of Wen-di and Jing-di the people prospered and taxes were low,” another scholar agreed. “It is a pity that in our time so few follow their precepts. The golden age has passed, and people have grown coarse.”

  “Could their principles not be restored?” Yi Hwan asked. “I understand that we cannot reduce the tax from twenty percent to three. But if we lower it to nineteen, and the following year to eighteen, would that not bring relief to the people?”

  “Is the Great Prince prepared to eat one tenth less rice?” a plump minister with glossy cheeks scoffed. Yi Hwan had not yet learned all the faces and did not know who he was.

  “I have eaten one tenth of what is served in the royal chambers,” Yi Hwan admitted, earning a displeased glance from Chief State Councillor Kim, his grandfather. “But I believe we should follow Wen-di’s teachings and pay closer attention to those who collect taxes rather than those who bring them. The state will not suffer if the number of thieves who harm it is reduced.”

  The men seated in the pavilion shifted uneasily. It seemed he had struck a sore spot.

  “Commendable thoughts,” the king smiled at him. “Why did you choose Wen-di as your model?”

  Before answering, Yi Hwan rose and bowed respectfully. His reply must not sound too defiant.

  “I humbly follow the path indicated by Your Majesty and demonstrate filial devotion,” he declared. “Since the king follows the teachings of Wen-di, how could he be wrong?”

  “I do not recall the king mentioning Wen-di as an example,” someone observed from behind.

  Yi Hyun bit his lip and looked down. It seemed the elder prince understood where Yi Hwan was leading, but did not interrupt.

  “Wen-di decreed three days of mourning for himself, instead of three years,” Yi Hwan said firmly. “He ordered his consorts sent back to their homes and did not halt the life of the country. If mourning for the Crown Prince may be shortened to ten days, then the tax may likewise be reduced by one tenth.”

  A deathly silence fell over the pavilion. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked and fell silent.

  Then applause sounded above Yi Hwan’s head. He cautiously lifted his gaze. The king was smiling broadly and clapping.

  “My son has understood what you were afraid even to ask me directly,” he declared. “We shall reduce the tax as he has proposed and investigate corruption. Proceed to the next passage.”