Page 40 of The Poet Empress
The young prince crouched down, poking at its feeble body with a willow branch. He looked at me expectantly.
I understood at once what had upset him. “Ah, Your Highness—this fish is about to pass on.” I saw an opportunity to teach him an important lesson, one every child must learn. “It is only natural. All things that live must die.”
“No.” He buried his head in his knees.
I knelt beside the boy, on the damp wood, and made my voice gentle. “You need not mourn it, Your Highness. This fish will return to the Ancestors, where it will join all the ones it has ever loved. And one day, perhaps in a different place and a different time, it shall be reborn again. As a peach tree, maybe”—I gestured at the garden around us—“or a different creature”—I pointed at a family of ducks parting the blossom-covered water—“or even a little prince.” I lifted Terren’s head up gently and gave him an affectionate rub under his chin.
He stared at me with big black eyes. For a moment, I thought I had been successful in teaching him the lesson. Then he said again,“No.”He stood abruptly and began tracing a poem on the bridge with his branch.
I could not believe what I was seeing.
Since it was a literomantic spell, I cannot repeat for you the words he used. But I still remember the sentiment behind it, the empathy, the love—It is not a curse to be confined to water.
Although to an onlooker, the poem argues, a fish might seem trapped in its pond—although to you and I, it may seem to know nothing of the world on land—it is not so. A fish can still admire the reflection of spring clouds on the water. It can still taste the blossoms that dapple its surface and imagine itself swimming among the trees. It understands more than we will ever realize.
His words were so beautiful, so vivid, that I could almost hear that injured fish speaking to me from amidst its suffering:Do not pity me.
My life might be smaller than yours, but it is full of joy and worth living.
Do not assume that I dream of greatness. Do not assume that I wish to be reborn in a different time or a different place, in a different life. I wish only to admire the blossoms in this one.
Do not pity me—for I am exuberant!
The characters on the wood glowed. Sparks shot up from them and arced into the water, growing lotus flowers wherever they landed. The petals wrapped delicately around the golden carp, and a moment later, the fish righted itself, wiggled its fins, and darted away into deeper waters.
Terren seemed just as shocked as I was, staring wide-eyed at the ripples it left behind. A moment later, everyone else in the garden arrived, drawn by the light and commotion.
“The second prince wrote a spell,” I confirmed, and the crowd instantly erupted into excited whispers.
Even the First Emperor had not been so precocious. Even the Prince of Eria, who had moved mountains, could not have written something so complex as a healing spell only by instinct.
The only one displeased was Lady Sky. Her son, who was twoyears older and heir, had not yet written his own first spell. It must have been a deep source of shame, for her son to be outshone by his younger brother, even if Prince Maro was still very young himself. She turned and left without a word.
For many months after that, Maro did not come to the peach garden. I heard from my informants that Lady Sky was keeping him locked in his bedchamber to compose his own spell, not to be disturbed except for one meal a day.
With his brother gone, Terren grew subdued. On days he came to the garden, he would sit alone, silent as he watched the swifts play in the branches overhead. Once, he tried to climb the Century Peach—but some time ago, the lowest branch had broken off from a storm, making it difficult for him without his brother’s help. Even when I put out a stepping stool for him, he still could not make it very far up.
It took many months for Maro to write his first Blessing. He cast it at the emperor’s birthday celebration, in front of many distinguished guests. But despite his success, it was like something in him had broken irreparably.
He never came to the peach garden again.
25A WICKED THING
Long after his brother stopped showing up, Terren still came by. Every day, I would find him sitting in the same spot, under the shadow of the Palace of Everlasting Spring’s arched gate, hugging his knees as he waited for his brother to return. But the longer Maro remained absent, the more agitated Terren seemed to become. As the days passed, he cried even more than usual and spoke even less.
He began hiding from us. When he was not by the gates, I could not guess at where he was. The other scribes and I would search every corner of the peach garden, only to find him crouched deep inside a thornbush or a shadowed alley.
One afternoon, he creaked open my office door and poked his head inside.
“Your Highness?”
He flinched at my voice, as if he thought I was angry at him—but I was not angry, only concerned. “Is there something you need?” I asked.
His gaze drifted to my desk.
“Ah,” I said quietly. “Your friends.” He was seven now, far too big to be playing with his old toys, but I blew the dust off Tiger, Niu Niu, and Little Sparrow and handed them to him anyway. He took them into his arms without a word and retreated deep into the peach trees.
One of my subordinates, Taifong, looked up from the scroll he was copying and scoffed. “An Azalea prince nearly grown, yet he still acts like a baby. Even young Prince Isan doesn’t cry half as much ashe does. Lady Autumn should be ashamed, for giving His Majesty such a disgraceful son.”
