by S. C. Emmett
Perhaps because Yala’s clear grey Khir eyes were very much like Mahara’s.
There. He had thought her name, too, and the unbidden image of his foreign wife’s round, pretty, wistful face almost caused him to stagger.
Takshin pretended not to notice. He was proving to have far more discretion than Takyeo thought him ever capable of. That realization should have been a comfort, but in reality, there was none to be found.
Not with his lovely, decorous warrior-wife half crushed under a horse, her leg pinned to its side by a barbarous, heavy iron arrowhead.
HEAVEN WILLS
The Emperor was not upon the low, silver-padded Throne of Five Winds, nor at the business of rule elsewhere in his vermilion-pillared Great Hall with eunuchs and ministers shuffling, murmuring their assent, or broaching soft questions. He was not pausing before one of the Kaeje’s gardens to admire the view, his fingers busy with satin-smooth kombin beads, or seated before a chessboard on the Scholar’s Porch across from Zakkar Kai, Fourth Prince Makar, or any other— courtier, Golden, or eunuch— who wished to play.
Instead, the nerve-center of Zhaon’s ancient and now united power reclined upon a wide bed in a hexagonal room bright with mirrorlight, its blank stone walls hung with tapestries. The Second Queen’s fine needlework showed upon more than one of the hangings, and so did First Concubine Luswone’s. The First Queen’s wifely contribution was heavy, healthful ji-hao incense in great brass burners set upon the wide, balustraded porch looking over one of the Kaeje’s two state gardens, the wide, curiosity-stuffed green spaces meant to awe visitors and comfort the captain of the country’s wallowing ship. Two stone-lipped fountains played a counterpoint to the murmur of the crowded room, and a babu water-clock chop-clicked each daylight span into fractions.
Black-clad eunuchs and bright-plumaged courtiers pressed close, avidly eyeing the wide, crimson-caparisoned royal bed. The body upon it was still strong, many years’ hard campaigning training bone, muscle, and sinew to resistance of luxury and illness both, but Garan Tamuron’s cheeks had thinned alarmingly and his robe was too high-necked for comfort upon such a bright summer’s day. His red-black topknot, though scantier now and holding visible grey, was caged with fine gold filigree and a sharp golden pin; though he was propped upon many square pillows his dark eyes were just as piercing as ever.
That fierce gaze softened as it bent upon a slight woman in dove-grey silk with a mourning armband upon her thin arm and a wide pinkish sash high at her narrow waist. Her wan, not-quite-pretty face was now visible because she had tucked her veil aside, her hairpin holding a shivering fall of fine, thin wooden segments mimicking the fall of a hau tree’s branches from a nest of thin but neatly arranged braids. Her fine-boned hands were clasped tightly in her lap, and the dress, though the colors were perfectly appropriate, was far too heavy for summer.
No doubt she wore thick cloth in lieu of armor, for Second Concubine Kanbina rarely, if ever, left her bower in the Iejo, that palace built for noble consorts not possessing wifely status. The lady was held to be somewhat…delicate. Of course, the last concubine was either the most favored or the least liked, sometimes both at once. The First Queen often snapped her fan and remarked, a creeping little mouse, nibbling in the house; the Second Queen and First Concubine did not speak of her beyond platitudes, and they did not visit. Still, every holiday and festival, small, well-chosen gifts left her half of the Iejo, and likewise appropriate, tasteful gifts or replies arrived from the Second Queen and First Concubine. The First Queen did not lower herself to such niceties with a concubine who had not, after all, given her husband even a girl-child.
It was a wonder First Queen Gamwone did not choke on poison whenever she bit her tongue, and though a scullery maid might be able to mutter such a thing, the Emperor was wise to refrain from remarking as much. “It is good to see you,” Garan Tamuron said instead, softly, and offered his hand.
Kanbina’s veil would have reached below her waist had she not gathered it aside; she leaned forward and clasped his hand in both of hers, covering the great greenstone-and-silver ring upon his first finger. “I beg pardon for interrupting your business, husband.” The words were scarcely audible, and a flush mounted from her neck, struggling up her thin cheeks. Her ear-drops were likewise restrained, thin hoops of beaten silver with tiny red stones caught inside the arc on rays of fine silken thread. Their ribbons were short, holding them close to her head, and they did not sway as much as another court lady’s might. “I was not…” She glanced at Tamuron’s expression, and finding nothing there but mild interest took heart to continue once more. “I was not certain you would wish to see me.”
“And why not?” With another he would attempt bluff heartiness, but such a tactic would overwhelm this sensitive instrument. And it was, he could admit to himself, a relief to have a moment of relative quiet amid the bustle of the morning’s cargo of decisions to be made, weighed, or deferred. “You are a much prettier visitor than these ministers.”
“Hardly.” But the lady of lost Wurei looked pleased nonetheless, and her flush halted. Her mouth relaxed, and the shadow of the soft-cheeked, bright-voiced girl she had been peered through an older woman’s pale moon-waning face. “You are always so kind.”
“Hardly, indeed.” Tamuron gestured, a peremptory flicker, and the courtiers pressed farther back, spilling onto the wide wooden porch amid streams of incense. Some few were gog-eyed at a creature they had never, after all, seen— Kanbina did not leave her small corner of the Iejo for theater or market, or even to visit the Artisan’s Home within the palace complex. The Head Court Eunuch, Zan Fein, opened his fan and made a short gesture to push the rest of his dark-robed brethren away; it was he who had bowed most deeply upon her arrival, forcing all those lower in rank to do the same.
Zan Fein, master of protocol and many less forgiving arts, had his own calculus for measuring prestige, and his only public— or private, for that matter— comment upon the Second Concubine was that she was a true noblewoman, and quite refined.
Kanbina now studied the Emperor’s face even more closely, appearing somewhat at a loss for words.
“How is your son?” Tamuron inquired, gently. “Is he filial?”
“Very.” At the mention of Zakkar Kai, newly adopted and raised to princely status as well, Kanbina’s dark eyes lit and she ducked her head somewhat shyly. The soft glow suited her. “I must thank you again for granting him a hurai, my lord husband. He is well worth the honor.”
Her official gratitude had arrived under her little-used ceremonial seal, beautifully shaped characters showing she had spent much time practicing with brush as a noblewoman should. Tamuron knew she played the sathron for hours at a time, as well. What else did a trapped princess forced to marry a conqueror have to spend her time upon, especially while bereft of children, that longed-for joy of any woman’s life? “So speaks a mother in truth.”
“Adoptive-mother.” Kanbina dropped her gaze. It was best not to admit too much pride in children lest Heaven take offense, and she would be more cautious than most. “Is it very bad?” Her fingers, chill even in the close, thick heat, tightened upon his. “The pain? Physician Kihon will not tell me, he says I am to concern myself with my own health.”
“The good physician is correct, Kanbina.” Tamuron wore the first true smile in weeks under his sparse mustache and closely clipped smallbeard; the lines of strain at the corners of his mouth and eyes eased. Still, the memory— the blood upon the sheets, Kanbina’s gasping apologies as if she feared he would hold her responsible for miscarriage— pained him. “Do not tell him I said so, though, or he will become insufferable.”
“My own health is not worth the worry.” She ducked her head again, her ear-drops arrested as they swung and her hairpin’s decorations making small soft sounds. Her fingers moved slightly, and there was a slight roughness to the tips where sathron-strings would bite. The instrument was unforgiving even with its gentlest devotees. “It will not be long. That i
s why I came to visit.”
“Do not say such things.” Tamuron patted her hands with his free fingers, as if brushing an easily bruised fruit. The matching, heavy hurai upon that hand was a weight barely felt, but he took care not to tap too hard against her knuckles. “We shall both recuperate, and spend long days upon verandahs, watching our grandchildren play.”
Her face fell, and Tamuron could have kicked himself, if the cursed malady wasn’t robbing him of his strength like a thief in an abandoned house.
So, he waited patiently for her to gather courage, as a rider soothes a high-blooded, high-strung horse whose previous owners had whipped too frequently. Finally, she took heart and spoke again. “Are you jesting? My lord?”
“No, Kanbina.” Tamuron let his own roughened fingers rest upon her softness. The sathron was indeed a harsh master, but not nearly as harsh as bowstring, swordhilt, or staff-wrapping. “Still, I have made provision for you. Zakkar Kai will be a good son, and your estates well cared for.”
“Kai is a very good son; I thank Heaven and you for allowing me to have him.” Her dark gaze turned solemn and serious, and she lost some measure of her diffidence. “But I am not worried, husband. I am ready.” She leaned forward slightly, and her tone dropped further. “I…I wanted to tell you something. Or ask you.”
“Then do.” He had not dealt with her gently; he knew as much. It was one of the few times in his life he had underestimated an opponent, but then, a man did not oft suspect his own wife. Though he should have considered the possibility— perhaps a peasant could afford trust, but a warlord knew that coin was dear indeed. To an Emperor, how much more so? He could openly admit a misstep, faced with the one that failing had wounded. “You, of all people, may ask whatever you wish of me.”
“The First Queen,” Kanbina whispered. Her hands trembled, and he could scarcely hear over the murmuring of the court and the thud-click of the garden’s water-clock. “Husband, please do not be angered, but…she does not send you…gifts, does she? Gifts of food, or wine…or tea?”
It was faint comfort that she had finally acknowledged the matter openly. Garan Tamuron had reached a summit of power and ambition, true— and found himself just as trapped by circumstance as a boy from an old but penniless family taking up a sword to make his fortune.
The world whirled, all things were mutable, and yet so little changed.
“You knew?” He might have stiffened, and his smile faltered a whit. Kanbina, ever sensitive, almost flinched, but he pulled gently upon her hands to steady and provide strength. If he had known how to handle such fragility in his middle youth, would she be less timid?
He would have been a better man, at least. There was no shame in admitting as much now and working to ease the burden he had thoughtlessly imposed, was there?
“I have ever been shy, my lord husband.” Kanbina lifted a shoulder, indicating the court with a tilt of her head. The branches falling from her hairpin shivered, clicking softly. “Not stupid.”
Tamuron nodded. His shoulders ached, and the long striped rashes upon his torso itched abominably. The malady was obviously not contagious, but that only made the affliction more perplexing to the physicians and apothecaries striving to cure, or at least arrest. “I never considered you stupid, Kanbina. I thought I could protect you.”
“I thought so, too.” The wistful prettiness of her youth bloomed again over her softening features. “You knew?”
“I…” Of course he had known. Too late, of course, and by then the damage was done. He hadn’t known the method, of course, but it looked as if his Second Concubine did. No wonder she stayed inside her walls; the only wonder was, indeed, that she had not pursued a vengeance upon Gamwone. Tamuron could even admit he might have been relieved at the event, and might not have chastised his last concubine too harshly upon its success. Or failure. “Too late, it appears. I regret it.”
But then, Garan Wurei-a Kanbina did not have much of revenge within her humors, and she was ever kindly. “I know you could not afford to chastise her openly. Yet I have often wondered.” She nodded softly, but there was an unwonted gleam in her dark eyes. “Has she struck you down too, my lord?”
What courage she had, to ask him. It shamed even the conqueror of Zhaon’s many recalcitrant fiefdoms to see that bravery.
“No.” It was his own failing body to blame, the malady gripping his humors with bony fingers. “Heaven has done so, justifiably enough. I have been fortunate, but I have also been a coward.”
“It is not so bad.” Kanbina moved as if to draw her hands away. Her fingers had warmed against his, the coolness of a woman taking heat from burning male humors. “Heaven will forgive both of us any cowardice, do we bow with good will.” She sounded so certain he almost believed the proverb.
“You are far braver than I have ever been.” He let go reluctantly. “Will you have tea with me, Kanbina? Or a meal?”
“If Your Majesty commands.” Her cheeks were ashen under their copper, now, and all sign of ease had fled. Her small shoulders stiffened. “I have always obeyed.”
“So you have.” Without a murmur, without any sign of recalcitrance— and yet, he wished he did not have to exact obedience. Not from her, in any case. Some men liked their congress perfumed with shuddering fear, but he had ever preferred to be matched, whether outside the confines of a bed or within. Shiera had been such a partner, and her loss still burned within him; he had hoped Gamwone…but that was beside the point. His business was the present, not an old man’s nattering upon the past. “I would not press. I do not wish to cause you pain, Kanbina.”
“There is none.” Now she was decisive, for the first time in many years. “I have had a very quiet life, my lord husband, and I have a son after many years without. I am content.” She moved as if to rise. A susurration slid through courtiers and sober-robed eunuchs alike.
They could be forced to withdraw, but their gazes devoured an emperor and his concubine without mercy.
“You came to warn me.” Tamuron loosened his hands, arranging them upon his belly. At least he had not run to fat; the malady wasted him but did not make him soft.
“I did.” Freed, and visibly gladdened by liberty, she reached for the bentpin holding her veil aside. “Forgive me, I know you did not need it.”
If Heaven had willed it, he would have been glad to marry her in place of Gamwone, but Wurei had come last in his catalogue of conquest for many reasons and she was ill-suited to a queen’s responsibilities. Not that Gamwone performed hers, wifely or ceremonial, with alacrity or even willingness these days. The Second Queen took on the ceremonial duties, but she did not exceed their compass. “Will you return?”
“If you command it,” she repeated, and let her veil fall. She was probably relieved to have its blurring between herself and the world. And in other words, she would obey, but she did not mean to seek him out.
As ever.
He could hardly blame her, and yet. “I prize your peace, Garan Wurei-a Kanbina.”
“So do I.” She righted her skirts, distractedly. “And soon I will have much of it. I will beseech Heaven’s blessing upon you daily then, husband, as I have for many years.”
He granted her leave to flee with a simple nod. She gathered her skirts and glided from the room with a decorous rustle, her step still as light as that of the highborn girl he had taken last to seal the keystone of Zhaon’s unification, the sole surviving member of Wurei’s once-powerful, once-royal clan.
His lips tightened. Gamwone had much to answer for, indeed, but a husband was the head of the house as the Emperor was head of Zhaon. Tamuron had made his First Queen what she was, just as he had failed to protect a shy, terrified girl. Senescence was a time of reckoning, was it not? His succession was ordered, but what of other affairs?
His chosen heir would not speak to him. His second son was entirely his mother’s creature; his third son disdained his presence unless it was to deliver a cutting, barely polite remark; the fourth was a scholar t
o be proud of, certainly, but uninterested in other affairs; his fifth was all but useless; his sixth still a boy. His first daughter, on her way to a queendom of her own to the south, was in histrionics; his second seemed amenable enough but who could tell what preening poison her mother poured into her not-yet-adult ears?
And what of the mothers of that clutch? His first wife was a poisonous problem, the second indifferent, his first concubine cold, the second wracked by his mistakes. War threatened from the north once more, and the hordes of pale Tabrak were restive as they had been before their last great swathe cut through Shan and the south of Zhaon before melting back into the Westron Wastes. And, to finish the list, Garan Tamuron was pissing strange colors, twisted with bone-pain, and scratching furrows in his own peeling, discolored skin.
If he had ever thought himself mighty, he was roundly punished for the misapprehension.
Tamuron beckoned Zan Fein forward. The eunuch glided much as Kanbina did, the usual clicking of his jatajatas absent in deference to the Emperor’s condition. “A most charming visitor,” he murmured, his sleepy eyes half-closed.
The Emperor, frowning, had no desire for pleasantries. “Where were we?”
Zan Fein acknowledged his master’s mood with a slow flick of his fan and a draft of umu scent. He was drenched in the costly perfume, as usual. “The matters of taxation in Lord Yulehi’s province, Your Majesty.”
Yes, the First Queen’s uncle was taking advantage of his half-year at court to fatten the clan’s coffers. Some care needed to be taken to allow him just enough to whet a clan’s natural appetites but not enough to produce overweening ambition. “Very well.” Tamuron sighed as a scribe availed himself again of the chair by the bedside, arranging the implements of his trade. “Take this down, then. In the matter of taxation, list territories…”
Matters of rule went on, a runaway armor-cart with maddened horses rolling irresistibly upon a screaming, blood-drenched battlefield, crushing any wounded slow or unlucky enough to be in its path. So many battles fought, and now he could see the smallest, most ignored engagements were the only campaigns that mattered.
