Page 73 of The Poet Empress
In the beginning, when the tradition was still new, one in four seal-bearing princes perished in their attempt to take the Crown. It was only later that they became more strategic about it. They began using larger and more specialized armies, more intricate weapons. They recorded tactics and techniques to be passed to future generations.
But even so, the death rate was high.
One coronation had even killedtwoprinces. Prince Arwa had been in the arena during his father’s coronation, helping him tame the dragon using his own magic, out of filial piety. The dragon had ended up killing the son, and not even a month later, the newly enthroned Zhaowei Emperor had died of grief.
Terren made an impatient noise. “There is no shortage of people who want me dead. Do you think I am so foolish to let anyone in the arena while my ward is down?”
“But surely there are at least some you trust. Some who you are certain would support you.”
“The privilege of being powerful, Wei, is that I do not need to rely ontrust.” He spat out the word like poison.
We sat in silence a while longer, and then he went to pray in the temple, unaware that he had been giving me material for his killing poem.
41SNOWSTORM
There was a sunlit study attached to our accommodations, and it was there that Terren spent most of his days, reading and working on his Blessings, which he set aside for battlefronts, the House’s stores, or far provinces. Sometimes he went up to the temple to pray—or, I suspected, to feed the carp; sometimes he took walks by himself alone, in the snow-drenched forest. He must have used those walks to find inspiration, because the moment he was back, he would pick up his pen immediately.
He did not hurt me much during our retreat. When he did, it was perfunctory. As if it was something he didn’t want to do, like sweeping leaves off a footpath, but had to anyway. There was none of his usual creativity in his torture methods, no light in his eyes. He simply cut me, mended me, and was done with it.
The rest of the time, he ignored me, as if I did not exist at all.
He drank wine. Lots of it. He never did it within the limits of the temple—such indulgences were not allowed according to Aolian teachings—but every other evening, he would take a few jars of it to a quiet, shrouded cliff not far away. I knew this because one night, he did not come to sleep in our bed, so I went looking for him. I found him sprawled on the jutting rock, unconscious, right beside a steep plunge into the clouds.
I thought about pushing him off, but I knew the Aricine Ward would not let him die. Maybe it would sprout him wings like a crane’s; maybe it would let him land softly like mist. Most likely, it would have stopped me from being able to touch him in the first place. In any case, he would wake up and cut off my head.
How unfair it was, I could not help but think, that the most wicked of us also got to be the most invincible.
Be patient. Wield the concubine’s weapon.Instead of throwing him off the cliff, I brought him tea, the way a dutiful wife might have done for her husband. I hiked all the way up to the temple on the mountain, braving the still-throbbing pain in my chest, and boiled together ginger, pine bark, and honey. Then I brought it back to him, along with some plain glutinous rice wrapped in bamboo leaves.
He left the tea and food untouched, but since he did not punish me for it, I kept bringing them to him other nights too, especially nights he did manage to make it back to our quarters.
I felt like I was taming a tiger.
A violent, rabid tiger that wanted nothing more than to tear into my flesh. But if I kept bringing it treats, would it then begin to recognize me? Would it begin seeing me as a thing that could be trusted—even if it was powerful and did not need to trust anyone?
A few days before the end of our retreat, there came a blizzard. I happened to be at the temple when it started, and two Aolian disciples approached me.
“There have been omens pointing to it being an unusually large snowstorm,” one said from behind their black mask. “We have seen a violet snake in the sky, and we have heard the whistling of the frost bunting.”
“We suggest you take victuals back down to your quarters,” the other said from behind their white one. “Enough for several days. It may become difficult to leave your room.”
Terren was not awake for the storm’s beginning. He had taken an overabundance of wine the night before and slept like a stone in his bed. I sat at the window alone, holding a warm cup of tea between my hands, watching the morning’s light flurries transform into something angry and vicious. Something that battered at the ceilings and pounded at the windows, as if the sky were a beast screaming to be let inside. I could not even see the pine trees five paces from the window through all the blinding white.
I had read about snow like this in the books, and in Maro’s journals, but seeing it in person for the first time was like seeing magic. I opened the door a sliver. Instantly, the wind came whooshing in, and when I held one hand outside, it filled with frigid white pellets within the span of a breath. I laughed, wishing I could take some home to show Bao.
When I woke up in the morning, on the second day of the storm, Terren was gone. He had left in such a hurry that hadn’t even taken his winter cloak, which was still hanging near the door.
There were no footsteps outside—any he made would have been immediately buried under new snow—but I had a suspicion about where he’d gone.
It was a treacherous journey to the top of the mountain. I could barely see past my arm in front of me, and the blizzard kept stinging my cheeks, my hands, my still-aching chest. I lost myself in it twice before making it to the temple.
As I neared its courtyard, I spotted a faint silhouette.
“Terren,” I shouted over the raging winds.
He didn’t hear me.
I drew closer. It was only when I was three paces away that I could see him clearly: crouched by the shore of the pond, still in his bedrobes, holding a dagger. He was digging stiffly at the snow with it, but was making no progress. Every dent he made was immediately filled again by the storm.
