Page 110 of The Poet Empress
I did not think I was meant to feel sorry for the cicadas, but I did. The little eunuchs scooped the wingless cicadas back into their jars.
“My turn!” One of the younger men, white-haired and grinning wide, cracked his knuckles and stepped forward. He had his own jar with him, with an iridescent cicada rattling inside.
The crowd cheered his name. “Nobleman Song! Nobleman Song!”
“The son of the Song patriarch,” announced someone with enthusiasm. “Who will be worthy enough to challenge the likes ofhim?”
That turned out to be a literomancer from Dusu District, with a cicada as black as his robes, and the crowd went even wilder. “A renowned literomancer against the heir apparent of a Great Clan,” someone exclaimed. “A match even Heaven would pause to watch!”
Amidst the excitement of the crowd, I turned to Silian. “Which one is your husband’s tutor? Can you introduce me to him?”
She raised a brow. “Tutor?”
“Master Ganji.” I was curious to know what he was like in person, after having heard so much about him from the journals.
“Oh, him. He passed away two years ago, of illness.”
I was not sure why the fact made me feel so empty. “He won’t get to see Maro’s coronation, then.”
She gave me a strange look. “No, I suppose he won’t.”
As the afternoon went on, there was more entertainment, morefeasting, more performances. Silian made me try cold noodles drenched in sesame oil, cucumber salad spiced with vinegar, and sweet watermelon and hibiscus wine.
At last, when the shadows began to draw long, and the men had become distracted with drink, Silian waved me towards the bridge leading to Maro’s study, removed from the rest of the festivities.
It looked different than it had at night. By the light from the setting sun, I could see how far the view of the lake stretched, full to the horizon with lotuses. The bookshelves by the window looked larger, as did all the blooming chrysanthemums. The dragon kite on the wall looked smaller.
“Now that you’ve had enough fun that everyone is convinced you are a real guest,” Silian said, closing the door behind us, “it is time to talk business. Do you have it?”
“I do.” I pulled out the piece of paper from my sleeve, and the light from its characters spilled across the entire room.
She took it, eyes widening with awe. “I have never seen a Blessing so bright before, and that is including the ones I have seen my husband and his colleagues write. He will be joining us in a moment, by the way.”
That surprised me. “He knows?”
“He has to. He must prepare himself to undertake the coronation himself once Terren dies. But I only told him a few days ago, after I received news of your success; any earlier and, as I said, he would not have believed us. When he sees your writing”—she ran a fond hand over the glowing ink—“he’ll know it for what it is. He’ll have no choice but to believe us then. Is this the whole poem?”
“It’s only a section,” I said truthfully. Even after working with her for the past half year, even after all the gentle evenings we’d spent sharing tea, I could not let myself trust her entirely. To bring the whole Blessing—and give the West Palace complete possession of it—would have been foolish. If I had, nothing would have stopped them from seizing it and leaving me with no leverage.
Besides, it wasmylove ballad, my killing spell. Terren’s life was mine to take. I may not have been qualified to judge whether he should die, but those who had not written his poem were surely less.
The door swung open.
I spun around and it was him, the first son. Prince Maro, with hissweeping white-and-gold robes, his curtaining black hair, his Aolian cloudstaff tied to his back by a ribbon kept looped around his neck.
I knew him.
That was the strange thing—Iknewhim, even though I had never once spoken to him.
In the process of composing a poem for his brother, I had also, by necessity, found Maro. I had known him when he was a child and willful; I had known him when he was a youth and dutiful. I had known him even later, as he maneuvered politically against the East Palace, in a desperate bid to save his brother and the nation both.
I knew his strengths; I knew his flaws. I understood how much of the stories I’d heard about him—of his honor, his virtue, his piety—were true, and how much were only exaggeration. I admired him for some of his deeds. I begrudged him for others.
Perhaps that was what it meant to be heard through words. He might not know the first thing about me, but I knewhimwell enough to judge him.
I had spent an entire harrowing year trying to make him emperor. It was only fair that I got to.
“Lady Yin.” Maro gave me a polite bow. “My wife has told me about your literary achievements.”
