Chapter 14
WORRYING OVER LIGHTNING
The empress might have spoken of Terren’s death only to trap me, but her words lingered long after the opera show, like mosquito bites. I could not stop thinking about them.
That night, I tried to get more information out of Ciyi. I phrased it carefully, pretending like it came from a place of concern. “Is there any way our prince can fall to an assassin?”
The eunuch set down his brush, the lanterns casting his frown in their flames’ light. “Women. Always worrying about things they should not. Do you forget he has the Aricine Ward, which makes him unable to die? Did you not witness Zhen’s foolishness on Selection Day with your own eyes?”
“That may be so, but he will not be invincible during his coronation.”
I had known that even before speaking with the empress.
Taming of the dragon, went the children’s chant, when empire changes hands.
On Dynasty Day, in Guishan, little boys would run loose in the streets, pretending to be crown princes fighting their dragons.
Their friends would light firecrackers in the background, adding to the drama with smoke and noise, or join in the action as allies armed with swords of mulberry branches and pine.
Even the youngest children knew that princes could not use Blessings when taking the Crown, for the dragons accepted no literomancy in the taming process. Terren would have to rely only on the power of his sigil.
Ciyi gave an exaggerated sigh. “Yes, his ward will be down. But I assure you that he will be very well protected, just like all the other princes in eras past. There will be guards. He will have an army with him. Literomancers will put up a magical barrier between the spectators and the arena—one that no dagger or arrow can pass through.”
But what about a spell? “The empress said something about a heart-spirit poem,” I whispered. “I was really frightened.”
The eunuch made an impatient noise, the same one as when I’d refused to flay Jin Veris to death and leave her for the sparrows.
“Lady Yin, a heart-spirit poem is not something any literomancer can write. It is one of the most complex spells ever discovered. A killing spell, yes, but one that takes the form of a love poem. One so heartfelt it can only be written for someone whom the composer knows deeply. Tell me, do you think anyone can get close enough to our prince to write a poem of love? You might as well worry over lightning.”
Over the weeks, I tried to probe Ciyi for more information on the heart-spirit poem. Even though I knew it was foolishness. Even though I was not capable of writing one yet, even though I might possibly never be.
It is only out of curiosity, I told myself. I am not really considering slaying the prince. My body still ached with the shadows of the pain Terren inflicted on me when I was not even his enemy. I could not begin to imagine what he would do to me if he suspected me of treason.
Ciyi was always begrudging when I asked too many questions, but since he served me, he had to answer me.
“That Blessing was developed in the early Ash Dynasty,” he explained, “as a potent derivative of the more commonplace healing spell. It is the only killing poem that can find its way directly to the heart from afar—no physical barrier can stop it. But they are rare. Only a handful of them have been written successfully over the years.”
“Because of their complexity?”
“Because they are love poems,” Ciyi corrected. “The Ancestors are fair, after all. To be the judge of whether it is necessary for someone to die, one must love them first. But once there is love, it becomes very hard to still want them dead, does it not?”
“Is there a specific form the poem must take? Any rules for it to be written?”
The eunuch gave me a strange look. “It is the feelings that matter, and the bareness of the recipient’s heart on display.
I am no literomancer, but I do know that heart-spirit poems in the past have all taken different forms. The only thing they had in common was being emotionally powerful enough to move the Ancestors.
” A pause as his look became searching. “Lady Yin, surely you are not fool enough to think of writing one yourself?”
I pretended to be frightened by lowering my eyes. “Of course not. I only wanted to be assured that our prince will be safe.”
From the mixture of disdain and twisted satisfaction on Ciyi’s face, I knew what he deduced from my words—that I was growing fond of the prince. Falling for him like any unwise concubine might, once she had experienced the pleasures of his bed.
I did not care what Ciyi thought of me.
“Let us continue with our lessons,” he said at last, face settling closer to satisfaction. “You are upholding your end of the bargain, so I shall make good on mine.”
As much as Ciyi and I argued, our lessons were the one respite I had against the tiger and the serpents, against the spider spinning her web. They were the only times when I did not feel helpless.
With every character I copied, hot summer wind drying the ink, I felt in control. The words on the page were mine. Nobody could take them away. Even if they burned these papers, I could simply write more.
Two months into my studies, Ciyi brought me my first book.
“These are from the palace archives.” He dropped a bamboo crate onto the desk, the thump of it startling the robins nesting on the windowsill.
There were more than twenty scrolls in the crate.
“The Annals of the Four Seasons: mandatory reading for any schoolboy wishing to become a scholar. It chronicles the period of history from the beginning of the War of the Seasons to the First Emperor’s unification of Tensha.
If there is any character you do not recognize, ask me. ”
He put the first volume into my arms. The scroll’s lacquered dowel was smooth, the ribbon tying it soft. I marveled at its beauty as I unraveled it.
The hardest part about reading, I was surprised to find, was not the characters themselves.
It was the sheer number of new concepts.
Tariff, vanguard, vassal state. Growing up on the rice terraces of Lu’an, I had no concept of trade or diplomacy, no understanding of bureaucratic systems or titles given to officials.
I had not heard of all the historical names and places referenced, ones that the author assumed the reader already knew.
As I went through the volumes, I had to pause many, many times to ask Ciyi questions.
Where is the Caeyang Corridor? How vast is the Inner Sea?
Who was the explorer Mei Xian? Images I had never seen before swam through my mind.
Images of wind-flattened steppes, and valleys carved by ancient rivers, and mountains so high their tops were bone-cold with ice.
I saw bustling cities, and empty deserts, and vast and violent oceans; I witnessed as three-masted junks braved their hungry waves, shipping salt and jade to faraway nations.
The Annals might not be literomancy, I came to realize, but they were still magic all the same.
They allowed for the impossible: to take someone, even a concubine trapped in the palace, to another place, another time.
It was a warm and beautiful feeling. Like the world had only been for other people before, but now I was a part of it too.
As if this country, this dynasty, they could also belong to people like me.