Chapter 43 Lingering Attachments
LINGERING ATTACHMENTS
“The easiest way to stop him,” said Master Ganji, during a council meeting in one of the gazebos on Thousand Lotus Lake, “is to kill him. No matter how we do it, the emperor will be enraged and suspect foul play. But all we need to do is ensure our prince is not blamed for it.”
“I can take the fall,” said Master Len. He was so old now that his hair was entirely white. “I have been Maro’s swordmaster for a long time, so His Majesty will believe my treason. It has been an honor to serve the dynasty as long as I have, and it will be a greater honor to die for it.”
To Maro’s horror, everyone around the table began nodding. He stood hurriedly, hands balling into fists. “Nobody’s dying for anything. We are not killing my brother.”
“He is evil,” said Master Ganji.
“He is family!”
“For you, blood does not mean family but country. Do you not serve Tensha first and foremost?”
It was all Maro could do to keep his breaths steady, to keep speaking like an adult and a peer.
“Master Ganji, you know I do. I have served it my whole life. With my whole life.” Those years building roads and waterways, those Fatigue-ridden months in the mountains—Maro could still taste the blood on his tongue.
He would have done it all over again, if Tensha demanded it of him.
Master Ganji’s black eyes were without mercy. “What would you give, to prevent the country from being ruled by tyranny? By blades?”
“I would … I would give everything.”
“Then you will not let lingering attachments cloud your judgment.”
Lingering attachments. Maro sank into his seat. His first instinct was to deny the accusations, to tell Master Ganji he was wrong. But he couldn’t. Not when he knew with the marrow of his bones that they were true.
If it had been anyone else marauding across Tensha, killing everything in their way, he would have written the edict executing them straightaway.
If it had been a favored advisor or friend who had tortured all those servants—even a friend as close as Siming, as Mei Yu—he would have raised the death-blade himself.
If it had been anyone—anyone—except his little brother, Maro would have done the right thing long ago.
“There is another way,” he said, quiet.
Everyone’s eyes fell upon him.
“We make sure he does not become emperor.” His eyes swept the room, meeting the gaze of each of his advisors, allies, and friends in turn.
“We play the political game and we win it. I am recovered enough that I can use my magic again, and I will resume my missions. The Grand Canal needs widening. The Aricine River needs new bridges. Tian City needs a new harbor. And the Salt Road needs to be finished properly. We are already seeing dividends from building the tunnel years ago, and there will be even more once we improve it further. All those things will contribute to our father’s good opinion of our faction. ”
He was still not as good at speaking like an adult as he’d like, but by the nods around the table, he knew he was getting better at it.
He turned next to the two leaders of the Song Clan and the Qi Clan.
“While I’m on missions, we’ll send part of our forces to the South Sea, to deal with the new piracy threat.
We’ll show my father that we do not need the Dao sigil to hold military strength.
” He then turned to High Eunuch Umei and Hai Vinda, the governor of Xilang.
“Those of us who remain in the heartlands will focus on rallying allies and gathering support. Come up with policies that you think will please the Great Clans, promises you think I’ll be able to fulfill.
I am not convinced that as many people condone Terren’s actions as it seems on the surface.
There are likely more against him than we realize; it is only that they are too afraid to express their true opinions without a strong opposing force to rally with. ”
More nods. This time, Maro realized with pride, even his old tutor Master Len was looking at him with approval.
He thought everything had gone well, but after the meeting, Master Ganji stayed behind.
“If it comes down to it, if there are no other options, will you be able to do it?”
The tone of voice he used made Maro feel like a small child again, staring out at the trumpet flowers beyond his window, being struck on the cheek by a rod.
There was no question what it meant. “If Heaven would truly force me to choose between my country and my brother, Master Ganji, then you already know what my answer will be.”
For years, Maro proceeded with his alternate plan, playing the political game. Sometimes it felt like they were winning; sometimes it didn’t. But with every new report of someone dead or tortured at Terren’s hands, Maro questioned whether he had made the right decision.
Are their deaths my fault? he wrote, anguished.
The maid Cilla who had spilled Terren’s tea.
The eunuch Tanse who had forgotten to bow to him.
A citizen of Xilang who had happened to bump into his horse.
All their deaths could have been prevented, if only Maro had let his allies kill his brother.
Lingering attachments—is my tutor right?
Have they made me weak, unable to do right by Tensha, unworthy of looking my countrymen in the eye?
Sometime amidst all the maneuvering and covert fighting, Isan came into his magic.
All of Maro’s allies were happy about the third son’s power. “It is not a threat to us,” they told him, as the palace feasted and celebrated the 果/Guo seal. “It is not something the emperor would choose over yours. Terren remains our only enemy.”
Isan was not in the celebration hall. As evening approached, Maro found him on the terrace alone, seated on the dragon rug behind the balustrade. “May I join you?”
The third son, ten years old, seemed surprised but delighted to see him. “Brother. Of course.”
They sat next to each other, watching the nightbirds flit across the pavilion rooftops and the stars overhead turn slowly.
The two of them had never been close. Though they had shared some years in the peach garden, the gap in their ages had been too large for them to play properly.
But even so, something had compelled Maro to see him.
Tomorrow, Isan would be gone. Sent on campaigns of his own, as far from home as his brothers’ had been.
“Do you know where you are going first?” Maro asked. “I assume famine relief, given what your magic is. Nama District has been hit hard in recent years, I hear. Tens of thousands of farmers perished just last winter.”
“Father wants me near the old capital. He’s prioritizing debt repayment—the Great Clans with businesses there are pressuring us to build them new vineyards and plum orchards. And after that, we’re going to export apricots and golden loquats on the Salt Road, to replenish our treasury.”
“Ah,” Maro said quietly. “It makes sense. We have borrowed heavily in the years after Jinzha’s reign.”
They sat in silence for a while longer, then Isan yelled, “Look! Look! A burning star!”
Maro did; above them, a bright red streak cut across the sky and vanished.
“It’s a good sign, isn’t it?” Isan spun to look at Maro, eyes shiny with excitement. “On the day of my celebration, too! What do you think it means?”
Ten thousand stars in the sky, but only the burning ones made people pay attention. Maro smiled and squeezed his brother’s shoulder. “It means you’re worthy, Isan. That one day, you can become anything.”
The time of no other options came the summer Maro turned eighteen, when Master Ganji called an urgent meeting. It was the first time the emergency signal had ever been used, and the entire council showed up thoroughly alarmed.
“We’re out of time,” snapped Master Ganji. “While you have been busy playing your little political game, Maro, our competition has been writing the Aricine Ward. And he is just days away from finishing it.”
Maro’s whole body went cold. The spell his tutor spoke of was the most legendary spell in all of Tensha. The one the Metal Scorpion had used to take down the First Emperor. The one that made its target unable to die.
If Terren cast the spell successfully, his path to becoming emperor was virtually guaranteed. Their father, who favored strength, was sure to name the more invincible of his sons heir—and even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. Terren could simply seize the Crown by force.
And not one person would be capable of stopping him.
“I didn’t even know that spell was real,” stammered Mei Yu.
“It’s real,” said one of the black-robed literomancers in the room. “But it is widely regarded as the most difficult spell to write. Near impossible. Since the Metal Scorpion, it has not been done—and even the Metal Scorpion took a decade to compose it.”
But Terren could. Without a question. It would have taken him years as well, to be sure, but he was good enough to write anything.
From the looks on everyone else’s faces, Maro knew that they were all thinking the same.
“Are we sure he is writing it?” asked Master Len, white brows furrowing.
Master Ganji passed a paper around the room. “This is a copy of one of his verses. Look at it. Just look at it. Any literomancer with any competency can see it for what it is—and tell it is just a few lines away from completion.”
He was right. It was not a long segment of the poem, but Maro recognized it like he would the shape of a dragon. And from the subtle hum of the paper, from the way it glowed hot, he could tell just how close it was to being completed.
And the diction. The rhythm of the lines. The flow. There was no question who the author was. Maro would have recognized his brother’s poetry anywhere.
“Where did you get this from?” he asked, his voice shaky.
“Lady Autumn,” Master Ganji replied.
“What?”
Everyone else seemed just as shocked. Terren’s own mother, working against him? Things must have become truly dire in the East Palace.
“The window is short,” Master Ganji said, bringing the meeting back to focus. “We must end him before he finishes the spell.” When he said the last sentence, he looked directly at Maro, as if expecting protest. But this time, Maro had nothing left to say.
For the rest of the afternoon, the council discussed strategy.
“Poisoning won’t work. The East Palace has silver needles and tasters in abundance.”
“We can’t break in with force either. His sigil is a strong one. We can’t bring bladed weapons anywhere near him.”
“Martial artists?”
“He’ll gut them before they can even get close.”
“Arrows, perhaps.”
“Arrows are sharp enough that they are like blades. Perhaps he can manipulate those, too.”
“I have never heard of him doing it. Maybe it’s worth taking the chance.”
“Then we must make sure there’s no trace of the attack. The emperor cannot catch wind of this.”
They were all thinking in the wrong direction.
Maro stood, heart racing. “No, it’s too risky.
” When everyone turned to him, he continued speaking.
“We can’t just attack based on blind speculation.
We only have one chance to strike.” If they didn’t succeed, the emperor would punish the West Palace for their treason.
The East Palace would redouble their defenses.
There would not be another opportunity. “We need to be certain.”
Silence. Then Master Ganji asked, “What do you propose, Maro?”
Maro met the eyes of everyone in turn. Allies who had supported him for years, who had given him trust and unquestioned loyalty. Allies who he would not let down. “I’ll go. Alone. And I think I know how to get him alone, too.”
The letter Terren finally answered contained just one line.
Want to play “dueling couplets”? I have the start of a poem.