The path to the throne room was long and winding. I followed you, walking just behind you, and fought the urge to keep your dress from dragging along the ground. Surely something that cost so much should not be exposed to dirt. But you did not seem concerned about it, and neither did any of the guards.
The courtiers we saw on the way were another story. There were so many! For every twenty steps you took, another begged your attention. Young magistrates, old lords and ladies, generals, and diplomats. Anyone who laid eyes on you wanted to speak to you.
“O-Shizuka-shon!” they’d call. “You grace us with your presence! May we come to court with you?”
“You may not,” you would say, and you would keep going rather than entertain their arguments. What of the fine silks they could send to you? What of the dress they’d sent for, just for you? What of the jewels? What of the poetry?
They were nothing to you.
And so you kept walking, leaving only the scent of your perfume in your wake.
When we entered the throne room, a gong rang.
Before its brassy ring finished sounding, one of the servants announced you. “O-Shizuka-shon, daughter of O-Itsuki-lor and O-Shizuru-mor, enters! May flowers sprout in her steps!”
You flinched at the mention of your parents’ names. Then, in an instant, the look of despair was gone, and only your Imperial mask remained.
As well it should. A warrior might put on a mask of bronze to face demons and blackbloods, but to face these jackals in men’s clothing, one needed a different sort of protection.
No, come to think of it, I prefer jackals. At least they are honest about their hunger. The people milling about the throne room that day had the same desperation in their eyes for you, the same bright avarice. Yet they had the nerve to smile to you, to bow when your name was mentioned.
But for the moment, you ignored them and turned your attention to the young man by the gong. “Crier,” you said. “You did not announce my companion.”
I shifted. Did I really need to be announced? I did not think of myself as a noble. At least, not the learned Hokkaran noble. I passed no exams, I received only minimal tutoring. My father did nothing to teach me how to run my lands; indeed, being in Oshiro too long chafed. My name meant nothing to these people.
“The Qorin?” said the crier. He studied me and Temurin both, as if trying to decide which one of us was more likely to be a barbarian.
“Oshiro Shefali, daughter of Oshiro Yuichi and Burqila Alshara,” you said. Strange to hear my mother’s child name coming from anyone but your mother or my grandmother. Most of the time, she was “that woman,” or “that demon.”
The crier stiffened. He clenched his jaw. Seeing him, I felt my stomach twist. Either my mother killed part of his family, or he was racist—or perhaps both. I did not wish to deal with either.
You narrowed your eyes. Just behind you, some courtiers were coming; you did not have much time before you had to brush them off. “Is something the matter?” you said.
The crier could not lie to you. Lying to the Blood of Heaven was lying to the Gods themselves. But he could not insult me either, since I technically had higher status than he did. And so, however bitter his qualms, he swallowed them.
“Oshiro Shefali-sun,” he said, “daughter of Oshiro Yuichi-tur. May her life be long and peaceful.”
It was then that the courtiers approached you: a middle-aged man with a topknot and his young wife, in black and yellow. Fuyutsuki Province, then. Were they the lord and lady? I did not know. Both of them wore a honeybee crest on their clothing. I racked my mind; had I seen it before? A dull ache dissuaded me from thinking too hard.
“O-Shizuka-shon,” said the man. “We are pleased to see you. It’s been so long since you attended court.”
Was it the crest that was bothering me? I felt a darkness in the room, a wrongness. Whenever I took a breath, the back of my tongue tasted terrible. I ended up holding my breath rather than deal with the nausea.
“We are sorry for the loss of your parents. They shall be missed,” said the woman. “O-Itsuki-lor’s work immortalizes him.”
Perhaps it was the environment? All the courtiers together, speaking their honeyed falsehoods? Why did I feel as if I’d caught scent of a tiger?
Again, you flinched. “Thank you, Fuyutsuki-tun,” you said. Wasn’t that the lowest form of address for a lord? “Have you met Barsalai-sur?” And a third-degree honorific for me. Shizuka, sometimes I wonder how you did not invite duels from everyone you met.
Fuyutsuki appraised me and my worn-out deel. His wife didn’t bother.
“Are you Yuichi-tul’s daughter?” he said. “I’ve heard stories about you.”
I said nothing, simply nodded. I did not like being in the spotlight.
“O-Shizuka-shon,” said Lady Fuyutsuki. “You know you are always welcome in our lands. My son, Keichi, is about your age. I’m certain you’d enjoy dueling him.”
“I would enjoy defeating him, if that is what you mean,” you said.
Lord Fuyutsuki laughed. It was a loud, pompous sort of laugh—one single “ha.” “Is there anyone you cannot defeat?”
Next to me, Temurin grumbled. “These Hokkarans and their simpering,” she said. “Barsalai, must we stay for this?”
“Barsatoq asked,” I said quietly.
Temurin crossed her arms. I did not blame her. In her position, I’d do everything I could to leave early. Expansive though the throne room may be, it still had a ceiling.
I do not need to describe the throne room to you, Shizuka. You know its secrets better than I do. Its hundred jade columns are as familiar to you as the rivers and brooks of the steppes are to me. Gold tiles line the ceiling, lending everything a brighter look; braziers shine like alarm fires. Around the perimeter of the room is an undulating jade dragon statue. I’m sure you tried to ride it as a child. In the center, near its yawning head, is the Dragon Throne.
On it sat your uncle in Imperial Green. Next to him, one of your three aunts. His first wife, nearing forty-two now, gray hairs tucked behind her ears like flowers. The current lord of Shiseiki was her nephew if I remembered correctly. My father liked to ramble about her when he’d had too much to drink.
“Now, there is a woman,” he’d say. “The beauty of a phoenix, cunning as a fox. O-Yoshimoto-tono is in safe hands with her.”
What was her name? Sand slipping between my fingers. Only the image of my father’s drunken face remained, of his pale gold cheeks flushing red, of the glassy look in his eyes. He and the Empress knew each other as children, thanks to my father’s friendship with your father. Maybe they played together as we did. He did not speak of her much except when the liquor got into him.