by E. W. Clarke
“He did what?” The boy was outraged at first, but then seeing the sadness and regret on Swan’s face, he calmed down. He told her that he didn’t care if she visited the library, as long as she didn’t bother him. And as long as she kept it a secret that he read late at night.
“Thank you,” Swan said, bowing. The prince nodded, gathering his scrolls close to him, and trying his best to ignore her.
Swan fell asleep reading the poems over and over. And when she woke, just before dawn, the prince was gone.
Time passed, and soon Swan was reading more than just her grandfather’s poetry. She read philosophy and history, along with other subjects. The prince had set aside a pile of scrolls he wanted Swan to read, too. Sometimes he would read passages of laws to her, ones he found particularly beautiful. Swan was surprised at how poetic such documents could be.
She wrote her own poems as well, imitating her grandfather’s style. She wrote with ink, on paper the prince had given her. She hid her poems deep in the library, hoping no one would find them.
Just after Swan’s fourteenth birthday, she snuck out at night and unlocked the door to the library, as she had countless times before. But this time, something was different. There was no candlelight, and yet she smelled the faint scent of smoke. At first Swan assumed the prince had simply left moments before she arrived, gone to his room earlier than normal. Then Swan heard something moving in the dark.
Her whole body went cold, and she stood absolutely still, though she desperately wanted to light a candle to see.
A woman’s voice called out. “What are you doing here?”
It was Empress Wu. Swan was caught.
There was a flash of light and suddenly Empress Wu came into view, a candle lit before her wide, pale face. Her red-stained lips dropped to a frown.
“I’m sorry, Empress Wu,” Swan said, turning to leave.
“Stay where you are,” the empress commanded. She lit more candles off her own, until the library was much brighter than Swan was used to seeing it. And then Empress Wu approached her, and Swan noticed the papers she was carrying.
“My poems!” Swan said, afraid the empress would eat them, spitting the chewed-up paper out as the woman had done years ago.
“What do you mean your poems?” Empress Wu said. “They’re in this palace. Therefore they are mine.”
“I only meant I wrote them,” Swan admitted. Empress Wu’s eyes flattened until they were dark, cold lines.
“There is no way you wrote these poems. These are Shangguan Yi’s.”
“He was my grandfather,” Swan said, but the empress hissed.
“I know who he was!”
Empress Wu came up close to Swan and grabbed her by the face.
“Don’t lie to me, little girl,” the woman said, but Swan wasn’t so little anymore. She was becoming a young woman, and said as much to the empress.
“Feisty, too,” Empress Wu said with a laugh. “Fine. Prove it.” And the woman handed Swan a piece of paper and then a brush and ink. “I want to watch you write a poem half as great as these.”
Swan wet the brush with the ink, but she was nervous. A drop of ink wet the page as Swan’s hands shook.
“I can’t,” Swan told Empress Wu. She was scared, and she had only ever written poems after long meditation.
The evil woman cackled with laughter that gave Swan goose bumps.
“You dishonor your Shangguan name,” she said, taking the paper from Swan.
“I did write those poems,” Swan insisted. “I simply can’t write one on command. Poems are not slaves!” she said, though she was immediately afraid of what the empress would do to her.
“Write something else, then. An essay. Anything,” Empress Wu said, pushing the paper back toward Swan.
The girl wet the brush again, and then began to write. She didn’t know what to write, so she simply wrote what she believed to be true. She wrote that all women should be taught how to read and write, and that she shouldn’t have had to learn in the dark. She wrote that libraries shouldn’t have locked doors, and that people shouldn’t have to read in secret. She described the feeling she had when she tied a scroll closed again after reading it and of wanting the other slave women to know the feeling, too.
Empress Wu watched in delight as Swan painted the characters onto the page. After Swan was done, the empress held the page closer to the light to read it more carefully. Finally the empress turned and smiled conspiratorially at Swan. If Swan didn’t know better, she would think that the woman was actually proud of her.
“Maybe you do have talent after all.”
The next morning, Empress Wu announced to her staff that Swan was going to become her private secretary. Everyone seemed confused, but no one argued or questioned the empress.
“Shangguan,” she called to her. “You are going to write for me.”
The empress had her staff set up a little desk for Swan in Empress Wu’s private office. Paper and ink were ready for her at all times. The empress didn’t seem to believe that Swan couldn’t write poems on command. She insisted that the girl try. Luckily and unluckily for Swan, when she did try, the woman loved them, demanding more.
“Write a poem about cherry blossoms for my friend who is visiting today,” Empress Wu would command, and then when her friend arrived she would have Swan read it in front of a crowd of people.
“Isn’t it amazing?” the empress would say. “Such rhythms, such striking images. I believe this girl is a genius, like her grandfather was.”
Swan had mixed feelings about the poems she wrote for Empress Wu, but she was happy for the recognition, both for herself and for her family.
“Are you ready to write even more for me?” Empress Wu asked Swan one evening when the girl had finished a long poem and had started to wash her brushes.
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Swan said, though she was tired from writing.
“Not tonight, but soon.”
Something about the way the empress said it gave Swan pause. Earlier that day, Swan had seen the prince, and he had avoided talking to her, turning away from her as if they weren’t safe speaking to each other. Swan wondered if she was in danger, working so closely with Empress Wu. Suddenly, an eerie feeling came over her.
“I will write whatever you ask of me,” Swan promised the empress.
The next morning, Swan awoke to chaos in the palace. Her mother had reported for duty, but no one was prepared to give them their day’s assignments. She told Swan that the emperor’s younger son had burst out of the kitchen crying into his sleeve.
“The emperor is dead,” one of the guards had finally told Swan’s mother.
“No one knows who is in charge,” Swan’s mother told her.
The answer to that proved quite complicated. Swan’s hopes soared as the crown prince ascended to the throne. But those hopes were dashed when, within a matter of weeks, Empress Wu banished him — her own son. To Swan’s shame and regret, it was she who wrote the edict that made it so.
Another of Wu’s children was made emperor then. A younger son whom she could easily control. Everyone knew that Wu was the real power behind the throne.
But even that was not enough for the empress.
One day, there was a knock on Swan’s door. She opened it, surprised to find Empress Wu on the other side. Her chin rose as she spoke to Swan.
“Are you ready to make history, my dear?” the woman asked, and took Swan by the arm. She talked quickly as they walked. “Do you remember what you first wrote in my presence, all that time ago? Well, it is past time I tell you how much I agree with you. I agree that women should know how to read and write. I also think women should be allowed to rule, the way men are.” Empress Wu looked Swan in the eyes then. “I am not an evil woman. I’m ruthless, maybe, when I have to be. But evil? No. I do what I must, and sometimes my action
s seem cruel. But in my heart I know I’m doing the right thing, the precise thing that China needs.”
It sounded to Swan that Empress Wu might cry, but then the empress quickly clamped back down on her emotions.
“I want you to write an edict,” she said. “A new law declaring me emperor.”
“But what about the emperor?” Swan asked.
“What about me?” Empress Wu said forcefully. “I’ve made plans. I’ve been patient. The Tang Dynasty must finally come to an end. I will be the next ruler of China. Wu Zetian, Emperor!”
“I’ll write whatever you want me to, Your Majesty,” Swan said, but in her heart she knew that making Empress Wu the ruler of China was in no way going to help Swan be free again.
“We’re entering a new age for China. I want the announcement itself to be as magnificent as my reign.” Empress Wu grabbed Swan by the shoulders and looked into her eyes with wild ambition.
“You are like a daughter to me,” Empress Wu said to Swan, “the daughter I never had.” But Swan was more afraid than moved. Empress Wu once did have a daughter, but she had strangled her to get ahead with the emperor. That’s what Swan had heard. It made her wonder if Empress Wu had killed Emperor Gaozong, too. She certainly seemed willing to take drastic measures to keep power out of the hands of her sons. What, then, would keep Swan safe?
Nothing, Swan thought. She would never be safe now.
Swan wept as she wrote the royal decree. She wept for China, under the thumb of a power-mad woman. She wept for the lost prince, whose fate was uncertain.
When Swan was finished writing, Wu barely let the ink dry before snatching the paper off the desk. She raised it into the air, laughing wickedly. She loved what Swan had written, and Swan’s word became law.
Wu was officially emperor of all of China.
Swan loved the daylight, and Emperor Wu gave it to her. She gave her a new bedroom filled with sunlight, with tall clear windows that faced the mountain forest, and her own library, bigger than the prince’s, with a glass skylight and sun-colored curtains.
It started when the two were at the lake. Emperor Wu had commanded Swan to write a lake poem, and they had traveled outside the palace grounds so that Swan could write from experience. She couldn’t stop smiling as she wrote, stretching out her neck to the light. She didn’t mind seeming unladylike in front of Emperor Wu. The emperor had told her to enjoy herself, and Swan did as her lord commanded.
Swan wrote until the sun was setting and she could no longer feel the light’s warmth. Then, just as she was about to hand the paper to Emperor Wu, a swan appeared. Its wings flapped as it landed on the dark water. The sunset colored its white feathers pink and orange. The color made Swan think of the flesh of an autumn plum, which in turn reminder her of the beauty of a plum blossom. And so she wrote on, with the emperor reading over her shoulder.
“Shangguan,” Emperor Wu said to her, reading the poem, “I love the swan’s pink feathers. Thank you for this.” Then the emperor took the drying paper and blew on it. She rolled up the poem and tucked it under her sash to carry it.
That is when Swan told Emperor Wu about her nickname. “According to my mother, it was my grandfather’s name for me. I was his little Swan.” Emperor Wu nodded her head. Swan could not tell the emperor what to call her, but she preferred not to be called Shangguan. It made her think of her grandfather’s death. Swan’s nickname made her think of him, too, but in a way that was dear to her.
Swan wondered if it was a mistake to share something so personal with the emperor.
“You must miss him terribly,” Emperor Wu said, and she was right. “I didn’t know him personally, I’m sorry to say. As for the circumstances of his death . . .” The emperor paused for a moment. “I’m sorry for that, too. He was a good man. But you have to understand, a ruler has to be ruthless.” Emperor Wu lifted her chin high.
“China is more important than any one family,” she continued. “It’s more important than the sum of every Wu that has ever been born, including me. It’s more important than every Shangguan, too, and every Song and every Wei and every Hun.” The homely old woman looked the young woman square in the eyes. “Swan — if you would honor me by letting me call you that?” Swan nodded. “Swan, I hope you can understand. I have to project power more fiercely than any man would, if I want to be taken seriously as the first woman emperor of China. The kings of the world must fear me! And when we’re dealing with kings far away, in lands with cultures different from our own, what inspires fear in them cannot be subtle.”
Swan was surprised by what she heard. She had always feared Wu, and rightly so. But perhaps Wu wasn’t a monster after all. Who was Swan to question the strategy of an emperor? As much as it pained Swan to think it, perhaps the future of China really was more important than any one person or family. Even Swan’s.
That winter, Swan’s mother died. Emperor Wu insisted on paying for the funeral, and invited friends of the Shangguan family into the imperial palace to mourn Lady Zheng. Swan read poems by her grandfather, wearing a grand silk dress that shimmered with strings of pearls. Emperor Wu wore emerald green and spoke with everyone who came.
That night, after every guest had left the palace, Swan cried alone in her bedroom, remembering the smaller room she had shared with her mother for years. She thought about the prince and how he had been kind to her all those years ago. She thought about the washerwomen who no longer said hello unless she stopped them to talk in the halls of the palace. Only when she thought of Emperor Wu did she find any comfort. Was it possible that the emperor was Swan’s only friend? The idea made her stomach hurt. She screamed tearful words into her pillow until she fell asleep.
The next day, Emperor Wu didn’t want Swan to write poems.
“I have a different idea,” the old woman said. “I feel invigorated!”
Swan smiled at the emperor’s smile, homely as it was. “I’ll write whatever you’d like me to write,” she said, as she had a hundred times.
“I want you to write another edict! Another new law,” Emperor Wu said, strong and clear. The last law Swan wrote was the edict that named Wu emperor. She feared for what Wu’s next law might declare.
“I clawed my way into this palace. Me, the daughter of a timber merchant! Can you imagine? Every man in China wants to be where I am standing. It was near impossible, what I have done.”
Swan listened for a command. What was she to write?
“It should not be so hard to get recognized, Swan. Look at you, as talented as your grandfather was. And yet, you could have folded sheets for your entire life instead of ever having written a poem.”
That thought made Swan almost unbearably sad.
“I want you to write another law, one that establishes a grand test for talent. I want there to be a way for the best minds of China to come together here in the capital. I want my kingdom to flourish, and I need talent above all to make it so.”
Swan liked the idea. It took all day, but the two of them talked enough about the subject that Swan understood exactly what to write. By the time she was ready to begin, though, the emperor was tired and needed to go to sleep.
Swan wasn’t the least bit tired. She felt as if she could work through the night, the way she had on those evenings years ago in the library with the prince. The thought brought a pang to her heart.
She decided to visit the prince’s library that night, hoping to remember where to find passages from laws that might be useful while drafting the new edict. Wu had long ago removed the locks on all of the library doors. Swan opened the door and was startled to find a man rifling through the shelves. He was dressed in black. Swan felt certain the man was a thief.
She was just about to scream when he whirled around and she saw his face.
It was the prince. He had aged in his time away, but she would recognize him anywhere.
“Well,” he
said, smiling. “This is all rather familiar, isn’t it?”
Swan shut the door behind her. “What are you doing here?” she whispered. “Does the emperor know . . . ?”
“She doesn’t,” he answered. “Let’s keep it that way. I’m not sure she wouldn’t kill me, but I’ve been away so long. I’ve run out of things to read.”
Swan doubted he was being entirely honest with her, but she didn’t question him. He moved with purpose and confidence he had lacked as a youth. She saw he wore a tiny pin against his dark clothes. It was a design she’d never seen before — swooping ovals around what appeared to be an ancient Greek symbol.
They spoke as he took scrolls down and placed them in a sack. He told her of life away from the capital and how slowly the news reached him now. He wasn’t sorry to be away from the intrigue of the palace, but Swan shared the details of her latest task with him anyway, outlining the noble plan Wu had for China.
“It’s a surprisingly good idea, coming from that witch,” the prince said quietly.
“She’s not a witch,” Swan said. “At least, I don’t think so.” She had never seen the emperor practice witchcraft. It was probably one of the rumors Wu started herself, hoping to make people afraid.
“Don’t tell me she’s gotten to you, too,” the prince said, and Swan didn’t know how to answer at first. It was true in a sense that Wu had gotten to her. And yet, Swan still feared her, still loathed her some days.
“I’m still her slave,” Swan told the prince, and the young man seemed to understand: Swan was doing what she must in order to survive with some amount of happiness.
“If only you could write an edict that would set you free,” the prince said.
That gave Swan an idea.
All night she wrote Emperor Wu’s law. On three long scrolls she outlined Wu’s vision for China, including an imperial examination, a test that would give the poorest man a strong ladder to climb if he could pass it. Her brushstrokes were pristine. Her characters strong. She made sure the instructions themselves were beautiful enough for Wu to take pride in.
