With hands and legs chained, Chế Củ stood silently beside the stone dragons. His eyes, heavy with sorrow, gazed at the mythical creature symbolizing the royal authority of Đại Việt.
The Lý dynasty's dragons adorned every corner of the Thái Hòa Palace. On the roof, terracotta dragons coiled gracefully, their scales glinting under the capital's sunlight; beneath the steps, two greenstone dragons flanked the grand hall, their bodies flowing like silk ribbons. The morning breeze swept through the roof tiled in yin-yang patterns, carrying the faint scent of agarwood incense from the inner palace, deepening the weight on his heart.
He gently touched the cold stone head of a dragon, feeling its intricate carvings, as if searching for a trace of warmth from his lost kingdom. This creature, the dragon of the Lý dynasty, bore no resemblance to the snarling dragons of Chinese legend, with their sharp claws and fiery breath. Nor did it carry the ferocious demeanor of Naga, the sacred serpent god, half snake and half human, of his homeland, Champa. The Đại Việt dragon was serene, its body curving in an S-shape, like the Gianh River, the natural border between Champa and Đại Việt, which flowed through the fields of early rice in his homeland.
He smiled. As he stood here, chained and waiting to be summoned by the enemy king, his peasants in Champa were harvesting the early rice crop—Chiêm rice, the pride of their fertile plains.
In his sorrowful memory, two lines of a poem, taught by his father, resounded:
"Just eat a sugar potato when you're hungry,
Don't be happy when the rice blooms in February."
Because the rice bloomed too soon. It must bloom by almost the end of spring in Champa land. In the tender embrace of early spring, where rains wove silver veils and floods murmured, the tall rice swayed, then bowed low, kissing the sodden earth. Lodged flat, it resisted the sickle, summoning the scythe's crescent gleam to sever slender stalks. With deft hands, the Champa harvester gathered them into bundles, weaving a few into a throne above the mirrored flood—a "chair" to cradle the yield.
Yet, the scythe's slick blade demanded skill; a careless cut stung knuckles sharp as frost. For highland women, new to these drenched plains, its dance was a riddle. As the third lunar month faded into the fourth, beneath skies of shifting moods, the rice that bloomed was frail. Its grains, brittle as lost dreams, shattered in the mill, tough on the tongue, yet fetched a high price in the marketplace. The first bins of Chiêm rice from this early crop were offered to the Champa temples, to his Naga.
Before the Lý dynasty's dragon, Chế Củ wondered what offerings were made in its honor. Gemstones, perhaps. Its head was small, with a broad, flat nose, as if inhaling the essence of heaven and earth. Rounded, with slightly protruding eyes that gleamed with intelligence, it seemed to peer into the soul of the defeated. The dragon's mouth clasped a pearl, a symbol of wisdom and prosperity, while its tail curled gently, ending in the shape of a lotus leaf, embodying the fusion of Buddhism and Đại Việt's royal power.
Chế Củ's lips twitched faintly. A pang of grief surged within him. He recalled the Naga of Champa, the embodiment of might and defiance. Naga slithered across the reliefs of Mỹ Sơn, the land of saints, its seven serpent heads rising like flames, mouths agape, forked tongues hissing curses. Its narrow, deep-set eyes guarded the sacred shrine of Shiva. Its coiled body wrapped around stone pillars, scales etched with ancient Sanskrit, narrating tales of destruction and rebirth. He remembered when his army marched to Indrapura, where the Naga entwined a ruined statue of Vishnu, its serpent heads shattered under the hooves of Đại Việt's cavalry. Champa's sacred creature was born to fight. But it could not protect his kingdom.
Now, standing before the Lý dynasty's dragon, Chế Củ felt small, like a speck of dust under the serene yet proud gaze of the creature of the court that had captured him and was about to humiliate him before its officials.
"Are you mocking me?" a thought echoed in his mind, as if in dialogue with himself.
The Đại Việt dragon gave no answer. Its body curved among the clouds carved on the stone pillar. Its pearl-holding mouth seemed to curl into a subtle, disdainful smile—a serene yet chilling smile, reminding him that victors need not boast. On the roof of Thái Hòa Palace, shards of pottery glimmered under the capital's sun, like the radiant scales of the Lý dynasty's emblem. Crafted by Đại Việt artisans, it was a symbol of harmony. Its body bore cloud motifs, its tail gently curled, ending in an exquisite lotus leaf, embracing the spirit of Buddhism.
In stark contrast was the Naga, the sacred serpent of his Champa homeland, infused with Hindu essence. The seven-headed Naga slithered around stone altars, its scales patterned with lotus flowers, as if embracing the cosmos.
If the Lý dragon was a dance of clouds, gentle and graceful, the Naga of his homeland was a hymn to earth and water, to majesty and unyielding spirit. Both creatures connected humanity to the cosmos. The Lý dragon held a pearl, symbolizing wisdom and prosperity, while the Naga of his kingdom guarded an inviolable sanctuary.
Carved from the greenstone of the Land of Thanh or the sandstone of Champa's volcanic mountains of the Hoang Son Range, the first boundary between Đại Việt and Champa, both were the soul of their respective kingdoms.
Now, standing before the Đại Việt dragon, Chế Củ felt only bitterness. His kingdom had fallen, yet the Lý dragon still soared, as if mocking his fate.
"The Lý dragon soars through the clouds, while my Naga lies shattered in pieces on the ground, just like me now, just like my fate after these three games of chess," he thought. His hand clenched tightly.
A faint sound interrupted his thoughts. Beneath the limewood platform, a shadow flickered. A young and beautiful girl emerged from the shade of the wooden pillars. Her jet-black hair, loose and flowing, danced against the late spring wind. Her four-part dress hugged her graceful figure, its hem fluttering like a bird about to take flight. Her face glistened with sweat, her cheeks flushed from running. Her round, dark eyes held a gaze both mysterious and familiar, as if conveying a message.
Chế Củ stared at her from a distance. His heart raced. He recognized her. He had seen her when he was caged in a wooden wagon, enduring the curious stares of Thăng Long's crowds. She was the woman in elegant attire, standing atop the Báo Thiên Pagoda's bell tower the previous day. As he climbed the stone steps to Thái Hòa Palace, he tried to look at her again. He vaguely seemed to see her wave, as if signaling something to him. But the distance was too great to understand what she meant.
Now, she glided past the ironwood pillars. Her steps were graceful and light, drawing closer to him. Then she ducked behind a stone dragon at the base of the palace steps. He saw a spark flash in her eyes. He heard, clearly, her whisper: "Northern Gate." Her voice was sweet, soft as a breeze in the air.
She didn't look directly at him but upward. Chế Củ secretly followed her gaze. The broken pottery shards on the yin-yang tiled roof of Thái Hòa Palace gleamed in a straight line under the sunlight, pointing toward the northern city wall. He held his breath. His eyes lit up, but he carefully maintained a calm expression, concealing that he had understood her message.
This could be no coincidence. During the Đại Việt siege of Vijaya, his Champa soldiers and warriors had used broken bricks to mark escape routes in desperate battles. The Đại Việt army, clever as they were, would never suspect he recognized this sign."Northern Gate." His heart surged. He repeated her words in his mind.
Who was she? A Champa ally infiltrating the Đại Việt court? Or a disgruntled palace maiden of the Lý dynasty? A faint hope flickered in his chest, like a small flame in a storm.
"The Emperor summons Chế Củ, Prisoner, to the court!" The sharp voice of a court official rang out from the palace steps, cold as a blade.
Chế Củ's hand tightened. His nails dug into his palm, leaving marks on his skin. He clung to that final spark of hope. He raised his head and stepped onto the royal palace steps. His eyes remained fixed on the glinting pottery shards on the roof of Thái Hòa Palace, as if they were mapping the path to his destiny.