4
Long live the Lady of Tianxia, may she rule for a hundred years,”
the court intoned.
Liars, I thought as I stepped up the dais to sit upon the throne. A farce we went through each morning since my grandfather’s death. A sea of faces looked back at me, most wearing expressions of bland civility beneath their long-tailed hats, though a few could not hide their displeasure. Aunt Shou had warned they were gathering, bickering among themselves to plot the way forward. Some were angling for position, seeking my favor—as many plotting my downfall. The more ambitious courtiers resented me, having imagined I’d be in a coffin rather than on the throne. Had one of them poisoned me with the waters of the Wangchuan? If I ever found out, they’d learn what a grave mistake they’d made.
Power bred enmity, the worst kind that kept to the shadows, waiting to strike unseen.
My lips stretched into a thin smile—any wider and it would appear weak, a desire to please. How I disliked having to watch myself this way. To be in power was to have a constant light shone over you. While it glittered from afar, any flaws or mistakes were magnified tenfold. As the Lady of Tianxia, I had to weigh my words before speaking, to guard my emotions from the eyes upon me.
Weeks had passed since Grandfather’s death, but his loss was still a nail in my heart. I’d arranged his funeral wearing a mask of calm, breaking down only in the solitude of my room. I wanted to plunge the kingdom into mourning, to command bright colors to be shunned, to cancel the festivities—but my grandfather’s will had stipulated that the rules of mourning were to be waived, for life to continue unhindered. And so I’d honored his wish, though it seemed almost a betrayal that life could go on . . . that it had not ceased the day he died.
For so long I’d leaned upon him, and now—despite the attendants and courtiers who surrounded me—I was truly alone. For that is the real meaning of loneliness, being unable to share your mind and heart freely with another without the fear of being judged or found wanting, or that they might seek to use you.
I quelled the urge to fidget though my head ached beneath my headdress of sapphire butterflies. Gold was my armor. I gilded myself in precious metals and stones not to flaunt my status but to imprint upon others these symbols of power, to rouse awe rather than desire. Maybe it was also to suppress my own doubt that I might be unworthy of the position, though I’d never admit it aloud.
As I stared at the court, I remembered asking Grandfather once, “Why are you so stern to the courtiers? Aren’t you afraid they won’t like you?”
He had smiled, patting my hand. “Rulers aren’t just meant to be liked. Loved. Feared. Hated, perhaps—but what’s most important is doing what is right.”
His expression had turned solemn. “Never show your enemy your weakness, Liyen. The wolves are waiting to pounce. The only way to stop them is to be the greater monster.”
“What if I’m not?”
I’d asked.
He’d crouched down to meet my gaze. “Pretend.”
I straightened now, lifting my head. Sometimes it felt like I was assuming a role in a play that was greater than my talent, thrust into an ill-fitting costume. But I wouldn’t shirk my part, though the burden grew each day. I wouldn’t give up, just as Grandfather never gave up on me.
We cannot help how the dice fall, but it’s our choice whether to keep playing.
Minister Guo sidled forward with a scroll in his hand, an oily smile on his broad face. He was one of the most ambitious among the courtiers, and I stiffened instinctively. “Your Ladyship, now the period of mourning has been lifted, we must discuss the urgent matter of your betrothal.”
He spoke in a blustery manner, more a demand than a request. I shrank back, catching myself too late as the minster’s lip curled. I’d heard the nobles were jostling for a hand in selecting my consort. Suitors would soon be lining up, mouthing false words of devotion when all they wanted was to rule in my place—to sire a child from my body to secure the succession, with no blood spilled but mine.
I had few illusions about my marriage, but one thing was certain: I would marry when I chose, not because I was told to. “Minister Guo, your timing is inappropriate.”
My tone was cutting. “While my grandfather waived the official requirements of mourning, I am still grieving for him.”
Instead of offering an apology, the minister began unraveling the scroll. “We are discussing the possibilities, not arranging a wedding yet. Your Ladyship can use the time to get acquainted with your suitors, of which there are many.”
My fingers clenched the armrest of my throne. Did he think I was so easily overruled? I followed the minister’s gaze toward the back of the hall, where the “suitors”
lounged. Some wore expressions of indifference, a few smiling broadly. Most were likely hauled here by their family elders in hopes of whetting my appetite. They were handsome in the forgettable way, dressed in fine garments, with the languid air of the prosperous. None had the presence of the God of War—an unwelcome thought that I furiously buried.
Minister Guo cleared his throat. “Lord Baoshu, the eldest son of the Bao family, is highly eligible. He—”
“Is your godson?”
I interjected.
The minster blinked but recovered with admirable ease. “What of Lord Yang? He is capable and virtuous and—”
“Well connected, as your nephew,”
I added, grateful to Chengyin for having shared all he knew of the younger nobles.
“Lord . . . Hong?”
I hesitated, struggling to think of something against the handsome and well-liked noble. Minister Guo’s chest puffed up as he prepared to push me further.
“The same Lord Hong who is in your debt, Minister Guo?”
It was Minister Hu who spoke as he limped to the front of the hall. He suffered from an inflammation of the joints that had worsened with age. While he was one of the more reserved courtiers, I trusted his opinion; his loyalty wasn’t for sale.
I inclined my head in silent thanks to Minister Hu. “I will hear no more of suitors. When I choose to hear about this, I advise you to find more suitable candidates—those who will enrich our kingdom and not your own treasury.”
Minister Guo’s eyes squeezed to slits. “What of your health, Your Ladyship? Your marriage must take precedence over all else, as your responsibility to Tianxia is to secure an heir.”
As several of the courtiers nodded, a cold fury sank into me. “My responsibility is to the people of Tianxia, to guard their welfare and happiness, to keep them safe. I know my duty, do not dictate my responsibilities to me, Minister Guo”—my tone was soft yet needle-sharp—“else you will find yourself barred from court.”
I resisted the urge to punish him right there, still hopeful of securing compliance without drawing blood.
Minister Guo flushed, fighting to hold himself in check as he bowed—a triumph I keenly felt.
“There is no urgency to my marriage,”
I told the court. “I am in good health and not in need of a spouse. I am strong enough to bear the burdens of the throne alone. If any doubt this, speak now.”
A gamble, to toss this out. But those who schemed in the dark were often cowards in the open, only moving once victory was assured. It was too early yet for any to have gained prominence, too uncertain to stick one’s neck out in case it was cut off.
The court stirred, a few scowling. They definitely did not like me now, an almost liberating realization, even as I found myself tensing. The slightest weakness, and Minister Guo and his cohorts would swarm over me. If I did not assert myself, I risked being usurped, relegated to the shadows. By allowing them to speak for me, to dictate my actions—they would undermine me at every turn.
Once, I might have shied from the palpable displeasure in the room, wary of confrontation. But my grandfather had not sacrificed himself so I could lose his throne to another, unworthy and avaricious. If anyone thought I’d choose a life of ease as a puppet ruler, they were wrong. Grandfather believed me worthy to rule, he’d taught me against the counsel of his advisors, and I wouldn’t let him down.
“Is Your Ladyship tired? Perhaps Your Ladyship should retire to your chamber and we can handle the petitions, to ease your burdens,”
Minister Dao, a grasping courtier, offered.
If I did, I’d return to find a third of the kingdom ceded to his sycophants. “Are you asking me to leave my own court, Minister Dao?”
I said icily.
He blanched. “I would not dare—”
“I’m glad to hear it, Minister Dao,”
I said darkly. “It would be dangerous for you, if you did.”
Aunt Shou cleared her throat from where she stood by the side of the dais. A sign that I’d pushed as hard as I could today, and I was grateful for her experience. Despite her refusal of an official position, she had been my grandfather’s confidante, her astute opinion bearing as much weight as any minister’s.
I gestured to the guards by the door, allowing the first of the petitioners in. Some sought aid, others wanting to resolve disputes. Hours passed as I listened and passed judgment when needed, at times deferring to the ministers with more experience. Part of me kept bracing for my fatigue to return, for my mind to cloud, my body to ache—marveling and grateful when it did not. The Divine Pearl Lotus had cleared all trace of my poisoning and more, somehow leaving me stronger than before.
As the sun dropped lower, some of the ministers began to shuffle restlessly, except for Minister Hu, who sat comfortably in the chair Chengyin had given him. I’d kept the court in session this long to prove I could bear the strain as well as them, to dispel lingering rumors about my health.
At last I rose, to sighs of relief. “The court is dismissed for today.”
The minsters bowed as I strode from the hall, holding my head up until I reached my room and closed the doors after me.
The lamps were already lit, hanging from carved bronze stands.
Through the latticed window, the sweetness of jasmine drifted in.
I could almost hear Grandfather’s voice asking me to close it for fear I’d catch a chill.
The mahogany desk in my study had belonged to him.
I sat on the chair, remembering how he used to work here, my fingers brushing the mother-of-pearl pheasants and cherry trees inlaid into the wood.
It was almost seamless but for the small drawer tucked into the side, one Grandfather had never let me open.
I tugged at it now, finding just a thin book within, the cover weathered as though numerous hands before mine had leafed through it, the characters of Tianxia painted upon the cover.
I turned the pages, my fingers creasing the paper in my haste. As I read the first page, my heart leapt—this was written by Lady Zhirong, one of the earliest rulers of Tianxia, describing how the Wuxin had come to our kingdom.
Long ago, these creatures were little more than spirits, drifting unnoticed through the Golden Desert in the Immortal Realm. But over time, they developed appetites that helped them take physical form—not for food, but for emotions. When Queen Caihong ascended the throne of the Golden Desert, the Wuxin refused to accept her rule. A terrible war broke out between both sides that left the sands drenched with blood.
It was then the Wuxin descended to Tianxia. Devastation followed, our people helpless against their magic. What they craved from us most of all, what strengthened them—was our sorrow.
“Beautiful, vicious monsters,”
Lady Zhirong had written of them. “Scavengers of joy.”
Countless lives were lost, much suffering inflicted, until one day, the immortals of the Golden Desert descended from the skies in their shining armor.
A treaty was signed with Queen Caihong, who claimed our service in exchange for their protection during the war.
The Shield of Rivers and Mountains, a sacred treasure of our kingdom, was surrendered to the immortals—enabling Queen Caihong to craft an enchanted wall that snaked around Tianxia to protect its secrets and prevent the Wuxin from infiltrating the rest of our realm.
Once this threat was vanquished, our obligation would be fulfilled.
Only then would the Shield of Rivers and Mountains be returned to us, and the walls brought down.
My fingers brushed the imperial seal I wore, tracing its carving of the shield. Why had Grandfather never mentioned this before? Maybe he believed he had time yet, or maybe he was afraid of awakening the ambition that was now stirring in my heart.
I turned the page, my eyes riveted to the words. The battle raged across the heavens and earth, with great losses on both sides. At last, the Wuxin were defeated—banished to the banks of the Wangchuan River in the Netherworld. However, before then, the Wuxin dealt a devastating blow to the immortals, killing the queen’s consort.
It saddened me to think of her loss—though why should I pity the immortal queen? But after losing my own family, I could never wish such anguish upon another . . . not even my worst enemy.
My heart sank as I closed the book. A high price to pay, trading our service for our safety, isolating ourselves to serve the immortals. Yet when one was falling into the ravine, one would grasp at the slenderest branch. What did today’s price matter when it would be tomorrow’s debt? Except danger touched our lives still: not just illness but creatures like the Winged Devils, the storms that the queen’s anger inflicted upon us. Grandfather had urged me to secure our people’s future, and I believed that lay beyond our walls.
A knock on the door broke my thoughts. Yifei, my personal attendant, announced Aunt Shou and Chengyin, sliding the doors apart for them to enter. They were among the few who were welcome in my private rooms.
“Court always gives me a headache,”
Aunt Shou said, taking one of the seats before me. “You handled today well.”
Chengyin grinned as he flicked a piece of lint from his brown robe. “Indeed. You were the perfect blend of cunning and intimidation. Few will dare gainsay you next time, for fear of losing their heads.”
I scowled, hearing more insult than praise in his words. “You’d be wise to share their caution.”
“I know you too well,”
he said with a smirk. “You don’t have the stomach for beheadings, at least not yet. Better to start with a few imprisonments and beatings.”
My nose wrinkled. “Are you volunteering?”
He shot me a look of exaggerated grief. “I would never dare to anger Your Ladyship.”
Aunt Shou sighed. “Stop quarreling like children.”
I swallowed my retort, nodding sagely instead. “Chengyin, listen to your mother. It’s time to set aside these juvenile tendencies.”
“She meant both of us,”
he told me with a glare.
“Are you prepared for your visit to the realm above?”
Aunt Shou asked me.
My mood turned grave. “Yifei has readied my outfit. But I don’t want to pledge my fealty to the immortals; I want us to be free of them.”
“Your grandfather wanted that too,”
Aunt Shou said. “He’d hoped—as did each ruler before him—that pleasing Queen Caihong would suffice to earn Tianxia’s freedom.”
“That she would return the Shield of Rivers and Mountains?” I asked.
Aunt Shou frowned as though surprised I knew of it, then nodded. “It was said when the shield was returned to us, the walls could finally be brought down. But they won’t release us; they like having us on their string.”
I ground my teeth at the thought. My kingdom was not an ornament, nor did we have infinite time. To an immortal, a hundred years was a blink in the span of their existence, while it was more than an entire mortal lifetime.
“If they won’t return the shield, I’ll take it back,”
I said with feeling.
Chengyin folded his arms across his chest. “Even if you find it, what will you do when the God of War attacks again, demanding its return?”
“How does one kill a god?”
Even as I asked it flippantly, part of me wished I hadn’t. The immortal had saved me from the Winged Devils. And while I wouldn’t let this obligation hinder my plans, I wasn’t sure I wanted him to die.
Chengyin choked back a laugh. “The gods might object to you killing them. They will fight back, and they do have some advantages. Magic, for one, and the fact our weapons can’t injure them. The few immortal ones in our treasury are nothing compared to what their warriors wield. The God of War’s sword alone was said to have cleaved the Wuxin Army in half with a single blow—”
“Gross exaggeration, else the war would have lasted half a day,”
Aunt Shou scoffed.
I leaned forward, clasping my hands on the desk. “Nevertheless, we must arm ourselves better.”
“Sure.”
Chengyin gestured to the window. “I’ll leap on a cloud and fly to the Immortal Realm. Ransack their armory, then come back down.”
It was what I most liked and disliked about him; that he had no reverence for my position, treating me as he did when we were children squabbling over the same toys.
“Just because something is hard is no reason to give up,”
Aunt Shou chided him. “If you don’t believe in what you do, who will?”
“If we can reclaim the shield, it gives us the chance to cancel the treaty, to bring down the walls. We can even petition the Celestial Emperor for his aid. Aren’t they the most powerful kingdom in the skies, and their emperor benevolent and wise?”
I’d read that long ago, when the immortals descended to our realm, they were bound by strict rules set by the Celestial Emperor to protect us. In Tianxia, the immortals had no such restraint.
Aunt Shou nodded. “The Celestial Emperor might also be keen to unite our world beneath him rather than sharing it with the Golden Desert.”
Chengyin sighed loudly. “Mother, are you encouraging this madness? While Queen Caihong can be harsh, our kingdom has prospered in some ways too—”
“It’s not madness,”
I said firmly. “Over the years, Queen Caihong has grown more temperamental, erratic, and demanding. When she is angered, we suffer treacherous storms, winds, and floods. We also have to deal with their enemies, the incursion of monsters like those Winged Devils.”
“Life isn’t perfect outside these walls either,”
Chengyin reminded me.
“I don’t believe it is,”
I replied. “While no place is shielded from misfortune, at least it’s not intentionally caused, imposed as a punishment. We shouldn’t have to live within these walls when our world lies beyond them. Why must we set the immortals’ wants above our own, especially when they care nothing for us? Don’t you want us to live for ourselves?”
“What of Kunlun?”
Chengyin asked.
“We will continue to watch over the place. We can protect Kunlun, with or without the wall,”
I replied.
A wistful look crept into Chengyin’s eyes. “I’ve always wanted to see what lay beyond these walls.”
“You will,”
I promised him. “We will.”
“What do you propose, Liyen?”
Aunt Shou asked, her brow creased.
“I don’t intend to pledge us to another lifetime of service. I’ll use my time in the Immortal Realm to search for the Shield of Rivers and Mountains,”
I said slowly. “To learn all I can about it, to secure any advantage that might help us stand against the immortals.”
Silence fell. “If you do this, you must be very careful,”
Aunt Shou warned me at last. “Never forget what the immortals are capable of, the cruelty in their indifference. Our titles mean nothing to them; your rank there will be less than the lowliest immortal. Do nothing to earn their wrath, don’t draw their attention. If you rely on their mercy, you will find none.”
“Liyen, are you sure you want to do this—to challenge the immortals? We’ll never be as strong as them,”
Chengyin said.
My hard smile hid my own uncertainty. “Then we’ll just have to be smarter.”
After Aunt Shou and Chengyin left, I lay awake in my bed for a long time, thinking of my Grandfather and how he’d tell me stories before I slept. My favorite tales were those of the Immortal Realm, which he’d visited after ascending the throne.
“Is it very beautiful there?”
I’d wanted to know. “Did you want to stay?”
He’d laughed, rumpling my hair. “Why would I? The land of immortals is enchanting—but it’s not home.”
“Tell me about the realm above?”
I’d asked eagerly. “Aunt Shou said there are eight kingdoms, and that the Celestial Kingdom is the most powerful.”
“It is,”
he agreed. “The Cloud Wall is a close rival, and there is also the Phoenix Kingdom, the Golden Desert, and the Four Kingdoms of the Seas. The Golden Desert used to have no ruler, but they united under Queen Caihong—except for the Wuxin, which led to the war.”
At the look of fear on my face, he’d patted my arm. “Don’t be afraid. The Wuxin are sealed away in the Netherworld.”
“What is so dangerous about them?”
Maybe if I knew more, I wouldn’t be so afraid. Ignorance often makes cowards of us.
“It seems harmless that they thrive on emotions, yet it became dangerous when they wanted more than what one was willing to give—when they took what was withheld.”
“How could they do that?”
I struggled to understand. “Our feelings are our own.”
“Our feelings are often a response to another’s actions or words. We are happy with our loved ones, angry when disappointed. The Wuxin learned to harvest emotions . . . fear and grief above all.”
I shuddered. “Why not happiness?”
Grandfather’s eyes had creased, his cheeks sunken. He’d looked older than his years then. “Sorrow is powerful and unabating, more easily reaped than something as elusive as joy. With this, the Wuxin strengthened, gaining magic that even the immortals knew little of.”
He had pulled up my blanket and tucked it around me. “But you don’t need to fear them anymore. The Wuxin are banished, and the immortals keep us safe.”
I’d wanted to ask more, but he’d stood then. “Sleep now, child. The time will come when I’ll share all with you, when you are ready to ascend the throne.”
I’d nodded then, not knowing the day would never come—that I’d be floundering in the court I was meant to rule, grasping at any scrap of knowledge to stay afloat. Maybe it was better this way. A new beginning, unbound by the ties of the past . . . one that dared to imagine a new future.