I lost track of the conversation while staring at the Empress, at the woman my father so prized. What few wrinkles she had only emphasized her handsome features. Not that it was easy to focus on her face. Where you were cloaked in peacock feathers, the Empress wore genuine phoenix feathers, passed down through the Imperial line for Ages. The slightest movement sent them swaying. Bright red, deep crimson; dawn’s gold and dusk’s orange trailed in their wake.
I could not look away from those feathers. Each plume bore a single green spot, almost like an eye, near the top. I found myself leaning toward them. As the smell of fresh brewed tea incites thirst, these feathers incited …
I could not be sure. My fingertips tingled; my forehead felt hot. What was it like to touch them? Would they sear my flesh?
And yet I knew I had to have them, and when I glanced down at my hands, I saw it there in my palms, and all around me were thousands of candles in different shapes and sizes, and my hand was not my hand, it was gray and twisted and topped with sharp claws—
“Barsalai,” said Temurin. “You gawk.”
Clearing my throat, I tore myself away. Lord and Lady Fuyutsuki left our company while I was busy making a fool of myself.
Only you remained, your hands tucked into your sleeves. You looked down your nose at me. “Shefali,” you said, “you are as bad as my suitors.”
Suitors? I grimaced. We were thirteen, and you had suitors? Your parents had just died—and you had suitors?
“Do not be so surprised,” you said. Venom crept into your voice as you glanced around the room. I saw them now—the men standing by the jade columns, looking over to you just often enough. Demure smiles. Dangerous eyes. “Three wives in, and Uncle has not conceived a child. There are fools who think they can use me to get on the throne.”
You kept going back to one of the men. He wore white and bright green, the colors of Shiratori. He was not tall, but he bore himself as if he were, all broad shoulders and puffed-out chest. Night-dark hair pulled into a horsetail complemented the shadow of a beard on his chin. At his hip hung a straight sword with an elaborate jade hilt.
Something about him soured my stomach. Have you ever seen a sick dog, Shizuka? Have you seen it shamble about, frothing at the mouth? Have you seen ticks coating a dog’s flank, so many and so fat that they look like mushrooms growing on a tree?
So I felt when I looked at him. He made my teeth hurt and my ears ring.
Four, five times you looked at him. Each time, you shivered as if something wet crawled down your neck. “Do not,” you whispered, “let him look at me.”
I stood in front of you to block his view.
Qorin height had its advantages. In the entirety of the throne room, only Temurin and a handful of guards were taller than I. I made it my duty to know where that man stood at all times, and as you went about your business entertaining conversations with people you did not care about, I stood between the two of you.
For the barest of moments, you slipped your hands free of your sleeves, and your fingertips brushed against mine.
And then I felt two pinpricks of heat on my back. I reached for the bow I left in your chambers out of habit as I turned. I was careful to keep you behind me.
He was there. So close. Shorter than I was, as a thirteen-year-old. I was struck by how clammy his skin looked, like raw fish. Beads of sweat collected on his forehead. When he smiled, his teeth were painted black. Fashionable two decades ago. Strange. He was no older than thirty, by the look of him.
He bowed and his coalfire eyes met mine. I did not allow myself to shiver, but the hackles on my neck rose all the same.
“Oshiro-sun, I take it?” he said. “I do not believe we’ve met.”
I fought the urge to bare my teeth. Temurin took a step closer to me, one hand on her scimitar.
The man glanced at her and scoffed. “Shizuka-shan,” he said, “you should call off your dogs.”
Instantly you pushed in front of me. Though you were cloaked in peacock feathers and sapphires, you burned with anger. “Call me that one more time, Kagemori-yon,” you snarled, “and I will show the entire court just where you belong.” Yon. I’d never heard that one before, but only the Brother’s titles started with that sound.
But Kagemori did not flinch. He laughed, once, as a man laughs at a child’s flailing. “And where is that, Shizuka-shan?” he said. “What ferocity. Did you slay the tiger, Shizuka-shan, or did you switch souls with it?”
In the years to come, many people would write about this moment. They’d swear they saw you draw a shimmering sword from the light itself and point it at his throat. I’ve seen paintings of it, you know. None include me. Some include Temurin. Temurin is more important to the story.
For it was Temurin’s scimitar you drew, Temurin’s curved blade catching the golden light of the throne room. To say you drew it in the blink of an eye would be to do you a disservice. One moment, you were empty-handed. The very next, you were not.
The sound of steel rang throughout the gilt room. Guards moved in, their pikes lowered, forming a tight circle around us. You kept the sword leveled at Kagemori’s throat.
“O-Shizuka-shon! Are you all right?” called the guard captain.
“I have been insulted,” you said. “And disrespected by this foul excuse for a human being.”
At once they turned their pikes toward Kagemori.
He sneered. “What a willful child you are,” he said, “drawing steel in the Emperor’s presence.”
“Uncle!” you shouted.
No one addressed the Emperor. The proper thing to do was to wait for him to speak in any given situation.
But you have never been one for waiting.
Your uncle bristled. He did not rise from his throne. Instead, he waved a hand, and the guards stepped back. The other courtiers went quiet in anticipation of his holy words.
“Shizuka,” he said, “you have demanded our attention. Out of respect for your father’s memory, we shall allow it, but you are to keep a closer guard on your tongue in the future.” Each syllable was heavy, each word formed according to the most formal rules of Hokkaran.
“This man refers to me as a child,” you said. “He speaks to me with familiarity he has not and will never earn. He has not heeded me when I have told him to leave me alone. I demand the right granted me by our divine blood. I demand a duel.”
As a stone dropped in a puddle sends out ripples, so you sent out waves of hushed whispers through the crowd. Kagemori—still held at sword-point—knit his brows.
Your uncle did not stand. To stand would show too much emotion. Nor did his wife have any visible reaction, save to reach for one of the phoenix feathers and stroke it.
“You cannot be serious,” your uncle said. “You are thirteen. He is a grown man.”
“Three months ago, I faced older men, and soldiers,” you said, your voice crackling with pride. “My age was not an issue then. It should not be an issue now. I am worth twenty of him with one hand tied behind my back and blindfolded. I demand a duel.”
This was the first I’d heard of it. But then, it had been three months since you last wrote to me. You must’ve been composing the letter when …