Chapter 29 Those Who Are Heard
THOSE WHO ARE HEARD
“My husband’s goals are aligned with ours,” Silian said, from beneath the night’s shadow of her cloak. “He would do anything, give anything, to save Tensha from Prince Terren’s violent reign. He wants his brother dead as much as anyone. But still, he would never work with us.”
Our secret meeting took place two weeks after the Mid-Autumn Festival. In the West Palace, where she resided, on the shores of the Thousand Lotus Lake. The moonlit waters to our side teemed with lotus flowers, which were interspersed with the occasional floating lantern.
“Why not?” I asked, trying not to despair.
“Well, suppose you are a prince. Suppose you have seal magic, and armies at your command, and Blessings that come at the calling of your pen. Suppose you are a peer to Tensha’s most influential scholars, its most renowned literomancers.
Would you stake the fate of the nation on a girl from the rice fields?
On one who has only just learned to read?
” Silian shook her head. “He would not make the time to meet with you, Lady Yin. And even if he did, he is far more likely to report you for your literacy—out of respect for tradition and duty to uphold Tenshan law—than collude with you.”
She was right, of course. As soon as she had said the words aloud, I knew just how foolish my plan had been.
How could I have expected Prince Maro to believe in me, when I hardly believed in myself?
I was a girl, not a poet, and somehow I had fancied myself taking down the Winter Dragon.
The One Who Cannot Die. Succeeding where the eldest prince—who had magic and wealth and armies—had failed.
It seemed a special kind of arrogance, held by the worst kind of fools.
My success in getting Hesin to speak with me had made me forget my place.
Silian turned onto a bridge, which crossed a narrow stretch of the lake onto an island.
“But I would stake it on you,” she surprised me by saying.
“Men never think much of people like us—we are not the ones sitting on thrones or holding court, after all—but their underestimation, I am convinced, is our strength. Our names may not be in the bylines of poems, but we still have power to change things from the shadows, in our own way. It has been the case since the first dynasty.”
Has it? I thought uncertainly of all the classics Ciyi had shown me, that detailed only the deeds of men. But perhaps the women were there too, between the lines, not visible. “You think there’s a way for me to finish the heart-spirit poem without speaking with Prince Maro?”
“The men who authored the books you’ve read, the poems you’ve memorized—you have never spoken to them either. Yet have they not made themselves heard all the same?”
We arrived at the other side of the bridge. On the island was a single pavilion, half-hidden in the shadows between stooped and ancient willows. Silian produced a key from her sleeve and opened the door.
“Maro’s study. He keeps all his private documents here, where even his closest advisors cannot access.
After we were married, he gave me the key.
Silian, I trust you with my most intimate secrets, he told me.
Sweet words on the surface, are they not?
” A soft laugh, tinged with the bitterness of winter.
“But if you think about it, they don’t mean much at all.
How can I ever know his secrets if I do not know how to read?
If I did, I doubt he would have ever let me anywhere near this place. ”
It smelled of dampness inside, of old paper and fresh flowers.
Silian fiddled with some lanterns, and a moment later, the room was bathed in a warm glow.
Stacks of worn books—volumes of classical poems and histories, judging by their titles—sat piled on desks and bookshelves and windowsills, which teemed with huge yellow chrysanthemums. There were Blessings here as well.
I could identify them by the intermittent flickering within the calligraphy, lightning caged within each stroke of the brush.
On one wall hung a toy oakwood sword, and on another, a battered-looking kite in the shape of a dragon. A few dried peach blossoms still clung to its paper teeth.
Silian pushed aside a cabinet, revealing a dust-covered hatch in the floor.
From it she retrieved a mahogany chest. “Maro has kept a journal since he was old enough to write. I remember being in here with him one day, watching him remove some entries from his collection. When I asked him why, he told me that they were the pages concerning Terren, from their youth. Pages he wanted out of his sight. He has not reviewed them for a very long time, so I trust he will not miss them. It will be safe for you to borrow them for a few months.”
The chest was carved with ornate tortoises and beautifully lacquered, and was heavy with scrolls and loose pages. I took it with solemnity, met her eyes, and tried not to be intimidated by the courage in them. “Lady Song, thank you.”
She smiled. “Do not thank me, Lady Yin. There are no altruists in the palace. We all work for ourselves.” And I left her thinking of another way that words were magic—You have never spoken to them, yet they have made themselves heard.
As autumn dissolved into winter, as my fateful wedding day loomed closer, I went through Maro’s journal, foraging for pieces of his brother. And the more I read, the more I realized Wren was right.
Hesin did not know the whole truth.