You sang my praises and I hummed along. I knew the melody, but not the words.
It was Fifth Bell. Kenshiro and Baozhai were showing the lords of Xian-Lun and Xian-Qin around the Bronze Palace; we had a few moments to ourselves.
Tugging my sleeve, you took me into a spare room and slid the screen closed. “Shefali,” you said, your voice quivering. “Shefali, there are so many people here. I saw Ikkimura and his wife. If the Eastern Conqueror is here, then West, North, and South are, too.”
I loved my brother dearly, but I still hadn’t said a word to him. Only a dozen or so people, he’d said. A small little tournament to welcome me home, just a way to race around nobles.
If he had only told us what your uncle was threatening, we could’ve done something about it. Could we not have? Oh, it is a fool’s errand to dwell on such things, but I spend so many nights wondering what would have happened differently. Perhaps we could have met your uncle at court. Perhaps he would not have been there, then. But we would have crossed paths eventually.
Kenshiro, for his part, did not impose his presence on us. What he’d done was beyond mending in one day, or two, or three. If we made it through the tournament without issue, then you might take your first steps toward forgiveness.
But as things stood—no, we would not talk to him.
But you and I were together then, in a room away from all the commotion, from all the difficult emotions. And I had not seen you so terrified in years.
“Shizuka,” I said. From side to side, we swayed. “We will be fine.”
“Nozawa is here,” you said. “I know he is. I have yet to see him, but I can feel his filth.”
There are some men who look at a woman as if they’re already holding a knife to her throat. There are men whose eyes are wandering, unwanted hands. There are men who by their posture alone can make a woman feel violated. Nozawa Kagemori was the king of those men. Thinking of the years we’d spent apart—the years he spent near you, when you were a young girl—made my stomach churn.
“You have me,” I said.
You pinched my cheeks with none of your customary enthusiasm, as if the motion alone would cheer you. The ghost of a smile appeared on your lips. “I do,” you said. “But, Shefali, what if I must duel him?”
“You’ll win,” I said.
Silence.
Silence?
Gods, I ached to see you like this.
So I took your right hand, and I held it up to the light. An old arrowhead scar stood out in a patina against your pale skin. I traced it before placing my palm over yours. Scar met scar.
Like swallowing a star.
“We are gods,” I said. “Gods do not lose.”
When your eyes met mine, a thousand lifetimes passed between us.
Until someone came running to the door and knelt outside.
“Your Imperial Highness, His Majesty the Son of Heaven has arrived and demands your presence.”
“Come with me,” you said. “I can’t do this without you.”
We made our way out of the palace. Baozhai insisted that the tournament take place two li off the palace grounds; even the Emperor could not sway the Bronze Lady’s insistence. And, to be fair, it was a much nicer setup than we would have had inside the palace. Guards lined the whole path, bowing their heads to you as you went. Though I followed only eight steps behind, they stood upright after I passed. Every eighth guard bore an Imperial banner: entwined dragon and phoenix. The arena itself was a large square with one of the four gentleman trees at each corner. Young musicians stood in the shadow of the trees. Girls played zither and Sister’s strings; a boy played the drums. Holy incense swirled gray poetry onto the wind.
And at the center of it all—his litter set up nearest to the plum tree—was your uncle. He was as fat as I remembered. Sunlight highlighted the greasy sweat on his face. His lips reminded me of overripe fruit.
At his side, three wives. The elder was the one I’d seen all those years ago in Fujino, my father’s first love. To my surprise, she still wore the Phoenix Crown—yet all the housings were empty. It was little more than a bronze circlet without the feathers. Perhaps it was their lack that made her seem stark now, and I wondered if my father still found her beautiful. Where her husband was round and wet, she was dry and thin. Not slender. Thin.
The other two wives I’d not seen before. Neither was older than us. One had a pair of striking green eyes that spoke of Qorin heritage; the other was a Surian beauty with smooth, obsidian skin, whose brown hair hung in a hundred small braids. Back home, only my mother wore so many braids; in Sur-Shar, many is the norm.
That was the first time I’d ever seen a Surian in the flesh. If your calligraphy sprang to life, it would look rather like her.
We came to a stop before the Emperor. In all of Hokkaro, you are the only one who is not required to prostrate herself before the Emperor. Instead, you gave him as small a nod as you could manage.
And you did not wait for him to speak.
“Uncle,” you said. The eldest wife swallowed her own tongue in shock. “Your retinue is marvelous, of course, and your robe exquisitely tailored. Your wives thrice bless you with their beauty, wit, and charm. Your calligraphy has improved from the last time you sent me a letter. Life has been kind to you.”
To this day, I marvel at how you managed to insult him and praise him at the same time. Where was the frightened girl from a few moments ago? In her place was a woman crafted from jade and steel and silk.
Yes, you stood unblinking, and when your uncle rose to his feet, you did not flinch.
“Shizuka,” he said, “were you not the daughter of our brother, we’d have you executed.”
And I admit that I had to stifle a growl when he said this. I bit into the back of my palm to hide it.
But it did not bother you. For all you spoke of being afraid, it did not bother you.
“Uncle,” you said, “with all due respect, that would leave only ghosts to sit on the throne after you. And my grandfather detested ghosts.”
I scanned the attendees. Uemura, in golden armor, hovered near the Imperial litter. The four direction generals were, I assumed, the four men standing behind the makeshift throne. Kenshiro was pale as my—
My father.
My father was on the Emperor’s right, standing next to Kenshiro. When I was young, I thought he was tall. I saw then that he was not; he came only up to Kenshiro’s shoulders. What little hair he’d clung to in his youth had all fallen out.
I shook my head. I had not seen my father since … I could not remember. So what if he was here? He would not speak to me. He would not acknowledge me.
I owed him no more than what he gave me.
“We see we’ve arrived as the Grandfather wills,” said your uncle. “This willful nature—your mother’s shadow—cannot be permitted to continue. You shall find a husband here. You shall marry him, before the tournament is over, and you shall resume a quiet life in Fujino.”