By then, Kenshiro was waving at us. Each of us drew in a quick, anticipatory breath. He closed his fist around the string and …
It did not move. He tugged and tugged, but the string did not budge. Soon he began grunting. Then he dug his foot into the ground until there was a small hole. One end of the bow went in. With his legs spread into a triangle, he grabbed the string. This time, all the muscles in his body went into it.
And still, it did not move.
“You’re so strong,” Baozhai called.
“Thank you, my love!” said Kenshiro. At last, he stopped trying. A great gasp left him; beads of sweat trickled down his brow. “I am the strongest man in Xian, you know.”
I picked up the bow and fired another shot.
All through the night, I tested it. The normal range of a Qorin bow is five hundred spans. Most arrows fired from such a distance tend to nick their targets, at best.
Mine was a clean pierce.
We tried seven hundred. We tried eight hundred. Around eight hundred fifty, it seemed, was the bow’s upper limit.
After an hour or so, you and Baozhai retreated to your chambers. Both of you were tired, you said.
“From doing all the work,” Baozhai specified.
“Ah, that’s fair enough,” Kenshiro said. “Shefali-lun and I will enjoy the manly Qorin practice of archery ourselves.”
“I think Lady Barsalyya is the only one doing any archery,” you said. “Do not hurt yourselves.”
My brother and I stood together in the barracks and watched our lovers retire. I remember well the look on his face: his soft features, his distant gaze, his smile innocent as a child’s. It looked silly, I thought.
But I knew I looked the same when I thought of you.
Kenshiro sighed.
“They’re great, aren’t they?” he said.
I could still see you in your peacock robes. Baozhai gifted you a Xianese-style jacket, with a high collar, lined with even more peacock feathers, twinkling under the starlight.
You’d be waiting for me to return. You wouldn’t sleep until you saw me again, for you had to know I was safe.
How strange. The Imperial Niece needed a security blanket.
It’s a job I’ve always been happy to fulfill.
“Yes,” I said. “They are.”
Despite Kenshiro’s boasting, he did not stay up much longer after that. An hour, at most. Just before Last Bell, I led Kenshiro back to his rooms. His arms were so sore, he couldn’t move the screen doors on his own.
I slipped into our bed. Just as I expected, you were awake. You took me in your arms and held me close. In your porcelain embrace, I forgot myself. I covered my hands in the ink of your hair; I drank the wine of your plum lips. When we were spent, I held you near to me.
“Shefali,” you said, “let’s be like them one day.”
“You cannot nag me so much,” I said.
Laughter like bells. “You are right,” you said. “I’ll nag you more.”
Ah, Shizuka, I could write for years about the kiss you gave me then. It was the barest thing, the lightest caress of your lips against my chin—but even that is more potent than a thousand poems. In the twenty Ages of Hokkaro’s history, we have loved each other. Before the Qorin began telling stories, we swore our eternal devotion. Before Grandmother Sky yearned for Grandfather Earth—yes, even before then, our souls entwined together.
How I miss you.
Gods above, how I miss you.
It grows more and more difficult to write this. Yet I have come this far, and I must continue, no matter the pain. In reading this, you’ve remembered our time together. You must remember these perfumed days. You must remember our life in the Bronze Palace, free of worries and cares, and you must hold those memories as dear as I held you.
As you hold whoever it is that lies with you tonight.
For six months, we prepared for the tournament. For six months, we delayed our fears. My condition bettered somewhat, with the relaxing atmosphere and my newfound hobby. I was with my family again. With you. I ache to think of that half year; how could I have been so foolish? How could I have let those days slip between my fingers like milk?
If we are gods, as you say, then I command you to take us back. Take us back to the miniature palace in the garden. Take us back to the plum tree.
Take me back into your arms.
Take me back to the night of the eighth of Shu-zen, before the first Imperial messenger arrived. Before he offered you a scroll sealed with your uncle’s signature. Before your uncle came for us at all.
Before the day we lost everything.
THE AUTUMN TIME HAS COME
When you received it, you were in the drawing room, playing go with Baozhai. You were losing, which surprised absolutely no one, but you were losing more graciously than usual. A cup of plum wine sat near your hand on the table. Baozhai teased you about your reckless tactics; you teased her for being so cautious. In the other corner of the room, Kenshiro tried to teach me to play a simple melody on the shamisen.
It was a hazy, warm moment, shattered utterly when the Imperial Courier joined us. He didn’t bother greeting Kenshiro and Baozhai; he went straight to you and prostrated himself.
“Your Imperial Highness,” he said. “The Son of Heaven sends you this.”
All the comfort drained away from you. “My uncle?” you said. Your eyes fell on the scroll, on its seal. “You came all the way from Fujino? How did you find me?”
The messenger kept his eyes on the ground. “Highness,” he said, “I was sent from the Son of Heaven’s caravan. When I left, he was two days from Xian-Lai. He will be arriving tomorrow.”
You could do little to hide your shock. I went to your side immediately, positioning myself so that no one could see you shaking.
“Tomorrow?” you repeated. “You jest. The Son of Heaven right outside our walls, and no one noticed?”
“Highness, His Majesty ordered any who saw him to silence. He wished to speak with you personally, and has sent this letter in advance.”
You twisted toward Kenshiro. “Are your guards blind?” you snapped.
Kenshiro flinched.
You pressed your lips together and sighed. “I … did not mean to be so rude, Oshiro-lao.”
Kenshiro, shoulders slumped, nodded. “Considering the circumstances, anger is an acceptable response,” he said. “I am sorry, Lady of Ink, that you did not have more time to prepare.”
“You,” you said, waving to the messenger. “Wait for my response outside. When it is ready, you will be summoned.”
“The Son of Heaven requested I stay at your side.”
“The Son of Heaven,” you said, “is not present. You will wait outside.”
The messenger was not allowed to look you in the eyes, but he did stare at your feet in confusion. Either he could obey the (absent) Emperor’s orders and upset you, or he could listen to you and risk the Emperor’s ire. Technically, your uncle outranked you, and he was the only person living who did. In practice, you were the demonslayer, your calligraphy adorned official documents, your father’s poetry was read by lovers everywhere, your mother’s techniques obsessively studied by expert swordsmen.
Your uncle had the throne, but you had the people’s hearts.