Chapter 63 Taming of the Dragon
TAMING OF THE DRAGON
The wind on coronation morning was relentless. It was as if the sky, itself torn, hungered to tear everything else apart as well.
Overnight and with stunning efficiency, the House had transformed the square in front of the Hall of Heavenly Supremacy from a white place of mourning to a bustling arena for the coronation.
From between a sea of gray clouds, the angry rip in the sky bathed everything in red: the banners bearing the 刀/Dao sigil, draping from every rooftop and balustrade; the tapestries of past princes fighting their own dragons, billowing ferociously from the eaves; the cymbal-bearers, the auspicious bronze lion statues, the ten thousand guests crowding the balconies and the perimeter of the arena below.
It was hard for me to comprehend the sheer scale of the event. It was a scale greater than any I had seen before, even after having spent so long in the palace. Greater than the Selection Day, than my wedding, than even the emperor’s funeral.
I was in my usual seat, on the dragon rug on the top level of the terrace, my phoenix shawl wrapped tight around me.
A guarded tent around me shielded the House’s most important people from the wind.
A cadre of Sun Clan men, the empress, and Prince Ruyi sat in a far corner; Prince Kiran, Prince Isan, and their advisors took up another.
Closest of all, not ten paces from me, was Prince Maro, Silian, and a scattering of West Palace men.
Servants wove between us, pouring chrysanthemum tea, refilling plum wine, and setting out small plates of dates, soft candies, and cut fruit.
Terren was beside me on the carpet, behind a table carved with dragons. He did not eat anything, though he did take a few sips of his tea. The hand holding his cup was shaking.
“You’ll be fine,” I said to him, tritely. The heart-spirit poem I had memorized swam in my mind, truth and emotion hungering to be freed.
He stared into his cup. “Of course I will. I am very powerful.”
It struck me that this was possibly going to be the last time I spoke to him alive. I searched for something meaningful to say, but could only find another platitude. “Terren—good luck.”
He met my eyes. “Wei…” He paused, as if also searching for meaningful words, then—for all his prowess in poetry—settled on something equally mundane. “Thank you.”
A gong shuddered through the square.
It was time.
Terren took one last sip of his tea, set it down, and stood.
His loose hair and plain gray robe billowed behind him as he made his way down the red carpeted stairs, from the top of the three terraces to the enormous square below.
He brought just eight swords with him—perhaps opting for finesse rather than quantity—which floated beside him as he left us, around the swirling Aricine Ward.
All around the balconies, underneath the 刀/Dao banners and blazing torches and auspicious lanterns, the crowd of men leaned in eagerly to watch.
They were all chattering excitedly, or perhaps nervously; it was impossible to hear their words over the roaring of the wind.
Everyone seemed to know that no matter what happened today, the fate of the dynasty was about to change irrevocably.
It took Terren a long time to reach the bottom of the steps.
It took him even longer to cross the square to reach its empty center.
An area large enough to fit the entire Palisade Garden had been cordoned off from the onlookers by imperial guards, and it was in the middle of it that he took his place.
He looked so small.
In all the tapestries around us, displaying past coronations, the princes were accompanied by rows of specialized swordsmen, martial artists, and archers; more often than not, there were trumpeters, flag-bearers, and heralds carrying strings of firecrackers.
In some eras, there had been bridges and platforms custom-built for maneuverability; in others, the armies had horses or armored elephants to carry them.
But in this era, this coronation, there was only Terren standing in the vast and wind-battered square. Alone.
“We begin the Taming of the Dragon,” the Minister of Rites announced from close to me.
There was no chance the people at the bottom could have heard him over the wind, but the words were standard; and anyway, a group of servants carrying a banner on the opposite balcony announced the same thing in written characters.
“We gather here to witness the coronation of Prince Guan Terren, the Winter Dragon, The One Who Cannot Die, and the Second Son and Heir of the Azalea House. May Heaven above and the Ancestors below watch after our dynasty.”
“May they watch after our dynasty,” the crowd repeated.
“Summon the dragon!”
Cymbals crashed as dancers wearing vivid dragon costumes marched around the perimeter of the square; pillars of flame each as tall as three men flared from the terraces all around.
Terren himself traced a summoning spell on the ground with a sword, and the moment the Ancestors drank it, the tear in the sky ripened and reddened, and a deafening roar shattered the nation.
Hurling down from the tear was the dragon. The Crown of the House. First a dot, then larger, then larger still, until the whole length of it landed rumbling on the cobble amidst a storm of dust.
It was the first time I had seen it so close.
It looked even more ferocious than all the depictions of it I’d seen, on the murals and tapestries and carvings scattered around the House.
The pictures all showed sharp teeth, fierce claws, and a long, serpentine body, but the Crown was even more formidable in real life.
Formidable and—I drew in a breath—beautiful.
It was a rich, majestic shade of red, with golden horns and a forest-colored mane.
White salt crusted between its scales like cloudfoam.
“Seal the arena!” cried the minister.
The dragon-dancers stepped aside, and then two dozen literomancers took their places around the square’s perimeter.
They traced a spell in unison, and Terren did too, giving his own words to use as the focus of the Blessing.
A moment later, a transparent, cylindrical barrier erupted from the ground just before the literomancers’ feet and stretched all the way to Heaven.
It was barely a glimmer, unseeable unless one squinted, but I knew that it was magic strong enough to protect the spectators from the coming battle between prince and dragon.
And to protect Terren from assassins, I thought. In a moment, he would have to take down his Aricine Ward—for the dragons accepted no literomancy in the taming process. In a moment, he would have to become vulnerable again.
But the barrier, impenetrable by arrows, daggers, or ordinary spells, would protect him from anything coming from outside. Anything—except for a heart-spirit poem.
“Begin the ceremony!” the minister shouted, as another gong shattered the square.
Terren, with one of his swords, cut the chain of white characters swirling around him.
The Aricine Ward broke for the first time.
It first loosened like a ribbon, then coalesced into the outline of a white tiger, then finally vanished into air.
And, just like that, The One Who Cannot Die became as killable as the rest of us.
He raised all eight of his swords and made his way towards the dragon.
From hidden under my shawl, I raised my pen.