Chapter 61 White
WHITE
They ruled the emperor’s death an illness. There was no evidence of foul play or poison, the imperial doctors declared; it was only natural and a long time coming.
But still, there was something strange about the timing of it. Strange and frightfully convenient.
The emperor was sick, Hesin had said, but even so, it could take years or decades for him to finally die and pass down the Crown.
It could have happened any other time—years before or years after. So why, I could not help but wonder, had it happened the day I took my poem to the West Palace?
Maro, I thought, have you shown me who you really are?
The funeral and coronation were scheduled very quickly after that—the funeral just two days after the emperor’s death, the coronation right after.
Time was of the essence. There was still an angry red tear in the sky and an imbalance between Heaven and the Ancestors.
Until the dragon was tamed and a new emperor was enthroned, the nation would remain vulnerable.
The scent of ash and burned things hung in the air.
There were even more people present at the funeral than had been during my wedding, all dressed in ghost-white.
I could see the full scale of the event from where I sat on the top terrace, overlooking the square before the Hall of Heavenly Supremacy.
Even the bonfires below me were white, enchanted to burn much hotter than usual.
Servants and eunuchs busied themselves burning items for the emperor to enjoy in his afterlife: coins and silver treasures, silk gowns and porcelain plates, scrolls of classics and poetry, water-painted murals, ivory game sets, bamboo flutes, wooden zithers.
They burned spells too, contributed by his sons and the nation’s literomancers, their glowing characters vanishing as they were swallowed by the white flames.
They even burned an army of soldiers and horses, carved from sandalwood, so he could be well protected in the spirit world.
“You may now perform your kowtows,” said the Minister of Rites, who stood close to me.
I knelt beside the princes, Silian, and the empress, on a carpet of lilies and white chrysanthemums. The emperor’s casket was here, elevated on a carved-gold dais that was adorned with dragons.
As we performed our rituals, I glanced over at the first son.
Silian had told me that he’d been importing medicines from the West. To save his father’s life, she’d said. Every week, he had been visiting him in his bedchambers, spooning them into his mouth while holding his hand.
I have my filial duties to attend to.
That was the last thing he’d said before he left us that night, the night he’d found out I had a working heart-spirit poem. The night he’d confirmed that Terren would be killed during his coronation, and that he would be the one inheriting the throne.
That same night, the emperor had died.
“It is nearly time to send His Majesty on his way,” intoned the Minister of Rites. “Who volunteers to go echo-step with him?”
Serpent’s Tongue. Undetectable. Its symptoms indistinguishable from a common illness.
It must have been so easy for him. Slipping it into the medicine he was already giving his father, during one of the many visits he was already making. And nobody would suspect him either. Terren was heir, not Maro, so there would have been little motive for Maro to want the emperor dead.
“I will,” said a voice from the crowd below. Li Panya, one of the emperor’s loyal generals and oldest friends, who had fought for him during the Azalea Civil War. As the man made his way up the steps to the top terrace, I kept my eyes on Maro.
The first son showed no emotion on his face—no grief, no regret, no satisfaction. It was like he had done something only routine, like building a road or widening a canal.
I understood why he’d done it. The longer the fight for the throne went on, the weaker and more divided the nation.
The longer the Crown remained unridden, the longer its power went unused and wasted.
Maro murdering his father would only allow him to begin stabilizing the dynasty sooner.
Any one of them would have done the same.
But still, I could not help but judge him for it.
Perhaps it was unfair, my judging. Perhaps it was only because I had heard the stories—both from others and from his own pen—and knew he was supposed to have honor and integrity. He had once believed he could rule a nation while keeping both, and perhaps it was the once that bothered me most.
We are long, long past the point of playing fair, Siming had said. But the people we told legends about were supposed to be better than us.
Li Panya reached our level and knelt next to the casket.
“Where my dear friend and benevolent master goes, I follow,” he declared, and drew his sword.
He sliced himself from the base of his neck down.
The sword had not even made it to his stomach before he crumpled and collapsed next to the casket, red blood staining pale lilies.
There were a few more volunteers. Guards and loyal servants, and two eunuchs who had been with the emperor since he was a boy. They all gave themselves up in this world, for the honor of continuing to serve him in the next.
Women were forbidden from going echo-step.
The journey beyond the grave was perilous, it was said, and only to be endured by men.
Forbidden too was anyone bearing a seal, since their magic was too precious to not be used in this world, but Maro, Isan, and Kiran volunteered anyway.
Even knowing they would be denied by the minister, they got onto their knees and asked to accompany their father.
Terren did not bother. “I shall not be a willing participant in theater,” he said privately to me, from where we stood a few paces away.
He had been doing that more as of late—confiding his political opinions to me.
I supposed he had not been able to do that with anyone since Hesin’s departure, and even so, I suspected he had not been quite as forthright with his former advisor.
“Do you think any of my brothers truly wish to die? The pretense is more insulting to my father’s cold body than if they had not gotten on their knees at all. ”
I kept my eyes on the carpet. I understood his way of thinking—I really did. But at the same time, I could not bring myself to agree.
If I was really his wife who loved him, if I really wanted to help him become a better emperor, I might have advised him differently. Terren, I might have said, don’t you know? Sometimes pretense is everything.
For the people who have never stepped foot within the palace walls, I might have told him, rumors are all they have.
For those who live a thousand li away, who have never seen your face, stories are all they know.
For the little girls in villages, far from the capital, all they have of you are pieces others give them.
Terren, don’t you know? Sometimes fiction is more important than the truth.
But I was going to kill him tomorrow, so I said nothing.
The last of the volunteers slew themselves on the terrace. Priests burned the bodies along with the casket and the flowers, and the pillar of flame was so tall it reached all the way to Heaven.