Chapter 2
POWER AND GREATNESS
Ma took to the idea right away, and even got the whole village excited.
For the next week she collected gifts from everyone in Lu’an. New shoes from Aunt Lien, necklaces of beads and daisies from Grandpa Cai’s sons, more dried prunes from Uncle Gray. They would all go in my basket of offerings, the day I was to get appraised to be Prince Terren’s concubine.
In Tensha, one did not borrow. One gave what one could, always. The idea was that if I became a concubine, I would have so much more to give. The whole village was counting on me for that.
For the next week, I learned and learned again how generous my neighbors and friends were. I was managing pretty well to hold in my tears until the two Rui sisters showed up at our door with their goat on a leash.
“Myrna gives great milk,” said Rui Fan, her sun-leathered cheeks tugging into a smile.
“Fresh and sweet,” said Rui Shina. “I think Prince Terren will love it.”
Then I couldn’t keep it together anymore, because I knew Myrna’s milk was not supposed to be for me.
It was supposed to be for the Rui family’s youngest son, because we all knew that the milk was the only reason Rui Dan had so much energy to run around and play.
“I can’t accept this,” I said between sobs.
“Keep her for Dan, I beg you, for him to grow up lively and strong.”
But they kept shoving Myrna’s lead into my arms, and in Tensha when somebody insisted three times it became rude to refuse.
The evening before I was to go into town for the appraisal, all the villagers from Lu’an gathered on the hill where the Ancestors lived, where Larkspur and the other siblings and so many others were buried, where ghosts sometimes roamed.
We sat together in the clearing in the larch grove on the hill, where wild poppies grew, and we all lit red lanterns and let them float into the sky.
For the moment, we forgot how hungry we were.
Bao wrestled with the other kids, with Obe and Sangka, and even Ma was all smiles as she chatted with Aunt Raia and Shu Monshu.
Ba was sitting solemn next to Uncle Gao, but I was not solemn, I was laughing and dancing.
I danced first with Rui Fan, our bare feet stepping in rhythm, and then with Cai Xi’er, my farm-hardened hands entwined in his.
I felt powerful.
The only other time our village had gathered together like this was when we were sending off the Har family’s youngest son, ten years ago.
Har Asori had always been a bright child.
He had snuck into the city more than once to steal lessons from behind the school’s fence.
Everybody had given what they could to send Har Asori to study in the capital.
Asori wrote us letters every year. None of us could read them, but the Har family kept them all still, and passed them around every so often so that we could all have a look at the beautiful calligraphed characters.
Asori held that kind of power, the power that allowed others to believe there was a life beyond death and hunger. And now I had it too.
Later that night, Bao declared, “It’s literomancy time!” and we all stopped our festivities and turned to look at him.
His grin was as wide as a young moon as he pulled out the two slips of paper Prince Isan had given us.
As impatient as he had been to see what Blessings they contained, I’d managed to convince him to save them until tonight, when we could cast them in front of everyone.
When one had magic, it ought to be shared.
Grandpa Har did the honors. His grandson was the one who had gone to school, after all.
We all leaned over as the old man traced the four characters from one of the slips in the damp soil with a stick.
His handwriting was shaky, unpracticed and uncertain.
But he was very careful about it. I could hear everybody else hold their breath, just like I did, as Grandpa finished the last stroke.
Was his penmanship good enough? Was Prince Isan’s intent strong enough? Would our Ancestors accept the words?
My doubt only lasted a heartbeat, because the effect was immediate.
The slip of paper Grandpa had been holding dissolved into dust. The characters on the earth flashed with light.
The flash coalesced into a tiny spark, and the spark streaked across the ground, through the dirt and grass, all the way to the edge of the hill to where we had buried my youngest sister.
From that spark in the earth, something started to grow.
Just a sapling at first, but soon a young tree.
We all laughed and yelled like little children once we recognized its leaves as those of a peach tree.
A Blessing was not pure magic, the kind Isan had demonstrated in the city earlier, so it did not immediately bear fruit.
But our hearts still soared. We knew that this tree was magic enough, at least, to withstand the blight. We knew it would bear fruit for us in the years to come and that we needed only be patient.
“The next one!” Bao yelled, delighted. “The next!” He held out the other slip.
Again Grandpa Har traced the characters into the earth. Again there was a flash.
This time, the glow traveled, unexpectedly, to Bao. We all fell into hushed silence as we watched it climb up his leg, to his heart, stay there for a brief moment, and vanish.
Everybody was staring. My brother was staring at himself, his chin resting right against his collarbone, his eyes bug-wide.
“The Blessing went to Yin Bao,” said Shina. She was stating the obvious, of course, but that was fine because that was what we were all thinking.
“Well?” Ma said after a while. “Do you feel any different?”
Bao, who looked still very surprised, shook his head.
“It’s a sign,” Ba announced decisively, standing.
When something strange happened in a small village, whichever interpretation was stated with the most authority tended to stick.
And Ba put much authority in his voice as he proclaimed, “My son will grow up to be a great man in the future. Perhaps one who will change the world.”
Later that night, Ma surprised me by coming to my bedside. I had been asleep, but my eyes fluttered open when I felt somebody’s hands fold over mine.
“Ma?” I whispered.
I was surprised to find her crying softly.
I sat up and cupped her thin cheeks. “Ma, everything will be all right. I promise.” I had no idea why she was weeping on a night of celebration. We had Isan’s peach tree, and Bao had the other Blessing, and I was possibly going to be a concubine.
She was too sad to speak, but finally she swallowed and whispered, “What if he hurts you? What if he kills you?”
I blinked. “Prince Terren?” All the stories of cruelty, of death, tied to his name. “I’ll be careful, Ma. I was raised by you and Ba, after all—and you have made me very clever.” I hoped the praise directed at her would please her.
“You don’t have to go, you know,” she said, voice as fragile as fallen petals. “You can still change your mind.”
It was then that I realized Ma loved me.
I mean, I did know, but I had always thought she loved me the way any mother in Tensha loved their daughters. They loved them, then they sent them away to marry somebody from a better family, then they loved them a little less.
But I didn’t know she loved me in this way. In a way that, if it meant I could be hurt, she would not wish me to be a concubine of Prince Terren’s, or join the palace, or bring our family wealth with his gifts. I had no idea she could ever prefer that I stay.
And she was right. I could still change my mind. I could try to marry a city boy instead and bring my family out of poverty slowly instead of all at once, one copper or bowl of rice at a time.
But then I remembered all the people of my village gathered earlier, on the hill, their eyes glittering as they reflected the lanterns in the sky.
I remembered feeling powerful. I imagined all the things Bao could be if he could go to school and learn to read, and I knew at once I could not choose anything else.
I kissed Ma on the cheek and lied. “I am not afraid of Prince Terren or of the Azalea House. I am not afraid of anything.”