Chapter 39 Fleeting Footprints, Lasting Carvings
FLEETING FOOTPRINTS, LASTING CARVINGS
After the doctor’s diagnosis, Maro started going to the tunnel with only Master Ganji and nobody else. The fewer witnesses, they reasoned, the less of a chance somebody would figure out the truth behind his illness.
It had been easy to cover up. Since Maro was much younger than the age Heavenly Fatigue usually struck, and he didn’t have the more telling symptoms of confusion, nausea, or blood-cough, Doctor Shu’s explanation for why he’d fainted in the tunnel—“the prince has simply overworked himself”—was accepted without question.
After all, he was overworking himself.
He was so tired that he hardly had the energy to keep up with his daily journal. His entries grew sparser. Some he had to fill in afterwards. Others were written by Terren; I recognized the calligraphy.
I imagined the way Maro must have lain in bed at night, eyes closed and exhausted, murmuring instructions to his brother in the room they shared by lanternlight.
“Make sure to note that we had fresh persimmons for supper,” he might have said, one of the days. “That Governor Tun had sent them from Milong Province as a gift to us.” Or on another, “Write down that I’ve hit a stretch of really hard rock. That I don’t think I’ll make much progress for a while.”
Very rarely, when he had energy to spare, he would ask Terren to compose poetry with him. “Give me a line. I want to play ‘dueling couplets.’”
“Okay.”
“It better be good.”
“Okay!”
It is easy to make fleeting footprints in the snow;
It is hard to make lasting marks in the stone.
Shall I dance ten thousand steps, unwitnessed?
Shall I make one carving, forever known?
Just like Hesin had said, Terren gained his magic while in the mountains, at the age of nine. It happened while Maro was at the tunnel. When he returned with Master Ganji that evening, he found the entire fortress in celebration.
Rice wine was being passed around like stories; bone flute music swirled in the air like snow.
Colorful lanterns bearing the 刀/Dao sigil lit up ice and stone, and banners carrying the red azalea flapped defiantly against mountain winds.
The entire imperial delegation of hundreds was laughing, feasting, or drinking.
And, at the center of it all, Terren.
Master Ganji’s face had turned a dark mask of anger, but Maro could hardly contain his excitement. He even forgot his exhaustion as he dashed straight for his brother, nearly bowling him over with a hug. “Terren! I can’t believe it! Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
It was the eunuch An Sui, one of Terren’s advisors, who answered for him. “We did send someone to the Salt Road, but the guards turned us away. They said you told them not to disturb you for any reason, however important.”
Maro laughed sheepishly. “Well, that’s true.” He then turned to his brother. “How do you feel? Do you like your new power?”
Terren started to reply, but his attention was promptly pulled away by General Wu.
“Your Highness.” The broad man fell to one knee before the second prince.
“Heaven has been kind to us, that an Azalea son’s power should be the exact one we need most. Please accept my pledge of loyalty.
” Behind him was a large crowd of military men, all waiting for a turn to speak with the dynasty’s newest seal-bearer.
Maro was too tired to stay long. “I’ll see you tonight,” he told Terren, though he wasn’t sure if his brother had heard.
Then he pulled the hood of his cloak up and started back in the direction of his bedchamber.
He wove through the bonfires, through clusters of men singing, celebrating, and reciting poems. They were roasting lamb skewers and frying savory pancakes over the fire, and the smoky smell of them made him sick. He had very little appetite these days.
Pieces of their conversation rose above the fire’s crackle. “With the second son’s power, will we finally vanquish the Lian?”
“At long last, we can take back the rebel provinces.”
“Perhaps our armies will be as fearsome as in the days of the Shouyuan Emperor.”
And then, far more insidiously: “His power is better than his older brother’s.”
Maro couldn’t help but overhear the whispers. They were everywhere.
“The Yongkai Emperor values conquest and military achievement. Yet the crown prince has not made a dent in recapturing lost territory.”
“What use is building roads when we have enemies everywhere?”
“Doesn’t the first son seem a little weak? All he does when he returns to the fortress is sleep.” A bout of mocking laughter.
Maro ducked his head as he sped up his walk. He was dimly aware that he could have them beheaded for the way they spoke—he was too young to issue the command himself, though he could tell Commander Remi or someone else with the authority. But what would that accomplish?
Everyone would think even less of him. A prince who can’t take criticism, they would say, only more in private. He is as despotic as he is worthless.
And besides, he didn’t want to kill anyone. Especially when they were right.
He crawled into his bed and lay there for a long time.
He was tired enough that he just wanted to go to sleep, but the day was a momentous one.
So eventually, despite the stone-heaviness in every limb and the ringing pain in his skull, Maro forced himself to sit at his desk and write in his journal.
He was still awake when Terren entered with a tray of food—steaming buns, cumin lamb skewers, and hot water that smelled vaguely of honey. “Master Len said you haven’t eaten anything all night.”
Maro kept his eyes on his journal. “Go away. I don’t want to see you.”
Terren put the tray on the desk, beside Little Sparrow, and gave him one of his kitten hugs. “You know, I’m really happy. About my sigil.”
“Good for you.”
“Because I can protect you now. Instead of always the other way around.”
“I don’t need protection.”
“Family is for keeping each other safe.”
“We’re not a real family.”
“And one day, when you’re better, we can spar again.”
“I’m not going to get better.”
“You won’t have to be mad at me this time, ’cause I’ll play the game right.”
“I’ll always be mad at you.”
“Maybe I’ll even learn to use a steel sword!”
“Go away.”
“I love you, Maro.”
“Go away.”
Little by little, the Salt Road crawled towards completion—but it was no longer what was top of everyone’s mind. Instead, they were all speculating on what missions Terren would be sent on once a response finally came from the capital.
“I told you,” Master Ganji said bitterly. “The Maple Pavilion has come to sabotage us. I did not think there could be anything that would overshadow the Salt Road, yet here we are. We should never have let that usurper and his advisors stay.”
Maro kept his head down and worked silently. Whether there was fanfare around it or not, the Salt Road still needed to be built. The nation still needed his magic.
On the day the delegation from the palace finally did arrive, both brothers—along with the entire fortress—waited eagerly by the gate.
It was near sunset, but heavy clouds had come to cover the mountains, and instead of a spectrum of brilliant colors there was only gray.
The imperial messenger gave updates on shifts within the Great Clans, promotions and demotions of important officials, new memorials the emperor had stamped.
Then, an edict for Terren.
It was written in the pen of the emperor himself, detailing the second son’s next mission.
Terren was allowed to remain at Fallen Sun Pass until the completion of the Salt Road—I sensed that Hesin had done some persuasion work behind the scenes—but after that, he was to immediately ride to the occupied district of Tieza, in the north.
It was as everyone had speculated: his first campaign would be against the Lian.
An army of seven thousand men would meet him there, along with martial artists from the Fog Enclaves and one of Tensha’s best living generals, Cao Myn, the Evening Tide. It was going to be one of the most monumental campaigns since the Shouyuan era.
The entire fortress was abuzz with excitement at the news.
Soldiers and military men were jostling each other to approach Terren or his advisors, asking if they would bring them on the mission.
There had been no greater source of shame for Tensha in recent years than having lost Tieza-North; retaking it would be a huge step towards restoring the dynasty’s glory. And everyone wanted a piece of it.
“This is our chance,” Maro overheard one of Terren’s tutors whispering to Lady Autumn. “If he is successful, he will not escape the notice of the emperor.”
“He is already in the emperor’s notice,” she replied, a distant smile on her face. “The Dao sigil speaks louder than deeds.”
“Even so,” the eunuch An Sui whispered, “do you think it will be enough to tip the scales? Perhaps we need something more…” They went off to speak in private.
Maro pretended not to hear anything. He stood silently by the gates while everyone kept praising his brother, too tired and in pain to care. It was a feat to even keep his eyes open.
There turned out to be a message for him, too.
While everybody was still celebrating about Tieza, the herald placed a scroll in his hand. It bore the imperial dragon seal. Father’s seal. Despite his overwhelming exhaustion, Maro managed to summon up at least a small tinge of excitement as he peeled off the seal and unrolled the letter.
After he read it, he stared at the paper for a long, long time.
Lady Sky, Second-Rank Concubine and Mother of the First Son, has died of an accident.
That was the entirety of it.
There was no expression of sympathy, no condolences, no acknowledgment of her long service in the Inner Court. No gratitude for raising a prince. Maro tucked the scroll away in his cloak, feeling like he was in a dream.