Chapter 25 #2
“We don’t have time,” I said, and my voice sounded empty even to my own ears. “Heaven will not wait.”
“No,” he agreed. “It won’t.”
The gardens were empty when I found them.
I’d dismissed my guards at the entrance.
I needed space to breathe without being watched.
So, I stood alone among the ornamental cherry trees, Kioshi’s sword heavy in my hands.
I’d taken it from his body, removed it from his side before they’d covered him in silk, before anyone could argue that it should go to the funeral pyre with him.
It was his heiwa-ken, his peace-sword, the one he’d carried every day since coming of age, the one he’d been wearing when he disappeared.
It was a miracle Eiko had returned it, a small act of grace—or, more likely, another attempt to needle us in our grief.
The blade caught the morning light as I drew it.
Perfect steel stared up, perfectly balanced, with our family mon etched into the guard.
Father had commissioned it for Kioshi’s sixteenth birthday, had presented it in a ceremony with the whole court watching, declaring Kioshi ready to bear the responsibility of Imperial blades.
I was twelve, standing in the back, wondering if I’d ever be ready for anything.
“Heika?”
I spun, the sword still drawn.
Grandmother stood at the garden entrance, her ancient face carved from weathered stone, her eyes seeing too much.
The last thing I wanted in that moment were the ravings of an old woman.
Her normally incomprehensible babble was amusing on most days—but this was not most days.
Still, one did not shoo away his grandmother when her grandson lay dead on cold stone.
“Grandmother.” I lowered the blade but didn’t sheath it. “I didn’t hear you approach.”
“No one does anymore.” Her chuckle was wry. “It is one of the few benefits of being so old that servants forget you exist.” She moved closer, her steps careful but steady. “They told me about Kioshi.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“And they told me what you said to the council, what you ordered.” She studied my face with an intensity that made me want to look away. “The officials are frightened of you now.”
“I don’t want them to fear me.”
“Haru, it is a good thing. Fear is useful, when properly applied.” She reached out to take my arm. “You want them to respect you, but respect takes time, and your youth, well, your youth did not engender respect.”
I grunted agreement. There was no arguing with such obvious truth.
“Is that his?” Grandmother gestured at the sword in my hands.
“Yes.”
“Will you keep it?”
I looked down at the blade, at my brother’s blade, at the proof that he was really gone. “I . . . I don’t know. Is that wrong? To take his sword before he’s even burned?”
“Nothing about this is traditional, little fish.” Her voice was gentle but firm.
The old nickname made my chest tighten. “Traditional died when they put your brother in a sack. You are doing what needs to be done. That is what emperors do. They make impossible choices in impossible moments and they live with the consequences.”
“I’m not Emperor yet.”
“You are in all but name. The boy who walked into that council chamber this morning is already dead.” Her grip tightened, bony fingers digging lovingly through the cloth of my kimono.
“The man who gave those orders—who commanded the Grand Minister, who invoked Heaven’s will—he is who you are now.
There is no going back to being just Haru. ”
Those words—from the mouth of my irreverent grandmother who rarely spoke plainly—settled on my shoulders like pauldrons, heavy and inescapable.
“I saw him, you know. Kioshi, I saw him,” I said quietly. “In the sack. They tore out his heart, Grandmother. Like he was an animal to be butchered.”
“I know.”
“Mother won’t even look at me. She said I’m already dead to her, that all her sons are gone.”
“She is grieving, little fish. She does not mean—”
“She does mean it. And the worst part, Grandmother, she’s right.
” I sheathed the sword with shaking hands.
“I’m about to become Emperor of an empire that is falling apart, our enemies are bold enough to desecrate a member of our family and leave him at our gates, and I have no idea if I’m strong enough for any of this. ”
“Strong enough?” Grandmother’s laugh was dry as autumn leaves.
“Little fish, strength has nothing to do with this. You do not get to be strong enough before Heaven calls you into service. You become strong enough by being Emperor, by making the hard choices, by standing when every part of you wants to fall.” She reached up and cupped my cheek like she did so often when I was a boy.
“Dear one, you have already begun. Those men in that council chamber—they saw a prince become something more, something greater. They saw you claim your birthright. That is not weakness.”
“It doesn’t feel like strength.”
“No. It feels like terror wearing a crown, but that’s what Imperial power is.” She paused. “Your father . . . and your brother . . . would be proud. To see you take command, to see you shed your past and become what you need to be, they would be so proud, Haru.”
I wanted to believe her. Gods, I wanted to think that somewhere, somehow, Kioshi was watching and approving, and that Father, in whatever afterlife awaited emperors, might see that his empire would survive—through me.
But all I felt was hollow.
“This afternoon,” I said. “We burn them both. Tomorrow I bind myself.”
“And become Emperor.”
“And become Emperor.” The words tasted strange. Then a small, frightened boy emerged to ask, “Grandmother, what if I fail?”
“You won’t.”
“How can you know that?”
“Because you are already asking that question.” Grandmother smiled, sad and ancient.
“Haru, the ones who fail are the ones who never doubt themselves. You doubt everything—every decision, every order, every moment—and that doubt will keep you careful, keep you from becoming the kind of emperor who burns villages or puts princes in rice sacks.”
She released my arm and turned to leave, then stopped.
“The funeral is this afternoon,” she said.
“Tomorrow, you will no longer be Haru. You will be Tennō, a divine instrument, His Imperial Majesty. Who would have thought?” Her laugh echoed throughout the garden before her expression grew serious once more.
“But today—for these few hours before the burning—you are still allowed to grieve. Do not waste this precious time trying to be strong.”
She turned and made her way back into the palace.
And I stood there, staring into the trees Kioshi loved, and wept.