But that is all right. I would not wish my condition upon anyone else, anywhere in time. Let me deal with it. I have already for so many years.
Regardless of the answers we didn’t find, we were still on the run. Your family did not know where you were, and we could not return to the clan. That left us with one option.
We sent word ahead to my brother.
During a stay at an inn in Kaikumura, we wrote him a long letter. Not half so long as this one, no. Not even a quarter as long. But it was long enough. We told him we were coming to stay with him, if he would have us; we told him our mother had banished us; we promised to explain once we arrived in Xian-Lai. And, to ensure it was he who read it and replied and not my father, I wrote it entirely in Qorin.
A return letter found us somewhere in the Southern Provinces, where they still spoke Xian and had Xian names and wore different clothing. I have never been skilled when it comes to history, Shizuka. I cannot remember which village it was, and at times I can’t remember all the provinces. The only reason I knew of Xian-Lai so well was because my brother was there.
Though, thinking about it, this did mean I’d have to become more familiar with Xian customs. His wife was Xianese. It was only now that this occurred to me, now that we were going through land more foreign to me than the Northern Provinces.
But regardless of my confusion, the letter found us. I tore it open as soon as we received it. You leaned over my shoulder, as if by staring at the letters, you’d somehow be able to understand them. Did you expect it to be written phonetically, the way we write things? The way I’ve written this?
No, it was in Qorin, and reading it made me feel warm. I could almost remember what Kenshiro’s voice sounded like. Almost.
To the Tiger-Striped Princess:
It pains me, Little Sister, to hear that you’ve had trouble with our mother. My home is ever open to you, and I am sure Baozhai will be more than happy to meet Shizuka-shan. I suppose I should write “O-Shizuka-shon,” but it doesn’t feel right to refer to her in such a way. Did you know, Shefali-lun, I changed the future Empress’s bedclothes?
Do not tell her I said that.
At any rate, I eagerly await your arrival. Our father has gone to Fujino for the Grand Audience the Son of Heaven has called for. I escaped only by virtue of being a newly married man. You could not have picked a better time to visit; our garden is in full bloom. We will prepare a feast for you. A small one, I remember how you dislike crowds.
But you do like horses, and archery, and wrestling. I will see to it that we have a little tournament of our own. No more than twenty entrants, I promise. But it will be nice to watch a few Hokkaran and Xianese lords lose a race, don’t you think?
Sister, it’s been so long since we’ve last met that you might just be taller than I am. It sounds like life has been unkind to you of late, and I know you may think of me as a distant sort of relation—more a cousin than a sibling. But it is important to me that you keep this in your heart: No matter what the world may think of half-breeds like us, we will always have each other.
But I will always have the last sweet, and you cannot stop me from taking it.
With love,
Halaagmod Kenshiro Alsharyya
I read that letter about as many times as I used to read yours, back when that was our only method of communication. You asked me to read it out loud—it made me so excited, after all—and sure enough, you protested Kenshiro’s teasing.
“He is only five years older!” you said, pacing around the room with your arms crossed. “How dare he. How dare he. There’s no way he can remember!”
I kept chuckling, for my brother has always had an excellent memory.
“He touched the Imperial Cheeks,” I said.
You stopped midstep, your amber eyes going small and fiery. “Don’t you join him!” you protested. “I’ll hear none of that ‘Imperial Cheeks’ nonsense from you.”
At this point, I could no longer contain my laughter. I doubled over in bed, wiping the tears away. You were just so upset about it, Shizuka! As if no one in the world ever changed your underclothes except for your mother. Do you realize there are probably dozens of serving women who did the same?
And yet you’d given me an opportunity I could not ignore.
“I’ve examined them,” I said. “Thoroughly.”
You threw a pillow at me, but it was worth it.
That was the tone for most of our traveling, Shizuka, was it not? In public, we were the Imperial Niece and her dear friend, that Qorin girl. In private, we were equals; in private, we could be ourselves. We spent our nights tangled up in each other’s limbs.
And, yes, there was quite a bit of learning to do. Not just the things you taught me about stilling my mind (though we spent hours every morning meditating to that end) but also about my own body. About my limits, and what I could do.
As you promised, we visited butchers. They were always so surprised to see you. Did you want their finest cuts, did you want the tenderest steak you’d ever tasted? Might you bless their slaughterhouse with the Blood of Heaven? It was a little exciting, I admit, to see a butcher try to wipe himself clean in the presence of royalty. You’d offer a smile and a written blessing if the butcher would let us assist in the slaughterhouse.
And without fail, they’d protest.
“I will not have the Peacock Princess standing by as pigs are gutted, no, I won’t! Not in my slaughterhouse!”
“How am I to bless it if I never step foot in it?” you’d say.
So it started. After a bit of back and forth, you’d earn our passage. Sometimes it came down to pointing out that as the Imperial Niece, you technically owned the entire Empire. Sometimes you just had to write a silly note for the butcher’s daughter or wife. Sometimes you wrote up cash seals right then and there. Conditions varied.
But our work never did.
We’d go in with the butcher. He’d start his work. You stood next to me, observed as he slit the pig’s throat or the cow’s or twisted the chicken’s head off.
Some days were more difficult than others. Some days I let out the most guttural growl, my jaw hanging open, my sharp teeth bared. You’d touch the back of my neck. In a firm voice, you’d whisper to me: “Shefali, stay here. Stay in your own mind.”
If it was a good day, we would assist the butcher. The first time we did this, I was shocked to see you join me. Her Imperial Highness, the Crown Princess of Hokkaro, tying back her sleeves and her hair in a common slaughterhouse.
“What needs to be done?” you’d ask. If you bothered asking. For the most part, you watched the butcher do it once. That was all you needed. With brush, knife, and sword, you have always been an artist—your cuts were clean as your mother’s, and the butcher was always impressed.
Mine, on the other hand …