by Sarah Zettel
Even incomplete. Xuan held tight to that thought as he descended the stairs with his fellows, raising a flurry of footsteps that rang like bells.
In the dragon-spiraled shadow the Nine Elders dispersed to commence their separate tasks. Around them spread the splendors of the Heart of the World. Pillars of marble and carnelian held up the carved beams of the roof. Ornaments of gold and jade, and hangings of painted silk graced the long, straight corridors. Xuan did not turn to look at any of the luxuries that surrounded him. He did not even stop to take note of his brothers and sisters, but walked to the Western doors as swiftly as dignity permitted.
Passing through red and gold portals, Xuan stepped into the noontime sunlight, and the Garden of Heaven. Here waited the tombs of the emperors, small grey temples of granite and unpolished marble. They stood rank on rank with their open doors facing east so that their imperial spirits could watch all those who came and went from the Heart of the World. Smoke rose through the openings in each roof from the fires of incense and precious woods. Monks in robes of sky blue tied with saffron sashes passed silently to and fro on their endless rounds of tending the fires and prayers.
Xuan held a memory of each of those emperors. On his left he passed the tomb of Emperor Sai, who had been round and fat and as skilled a judge of men as had ever sat on the throne. On his right lay Emperor Quyny, who had been born female, but who had convinced the Nine Elders to turn her into a male because not one of her brothers was fit to take the throne. He had seen born most of the ones who slept in these final houses. He had seen them all ascend the throne, and he had seen them all die. He had served each and every one of them with all his craft and heart. He had sacrificed himself a dozen times, become guardian or storm, become memory and soul, become flesh again to serve again. He would do so a thousand more times if necessary. The peace of Heaven was not for such as he. He was given his power to protect Hung-Tse, the red center of the world, and he would do so with a clear head and a full heart for as long as the world stood.
But, Goddess of Mercy, I do not want to have to tell An Thao to order the death of this child.
Because she too had been deceived by Isavalta now, and he would spare her a further such wounding.
Amid the tombs of the emperors, the temples of the gods stood out like exotic flowers. Red and green like the Heart of the World, their walls were carved in deep relief with the symbols of the element, direction, day, and hour where the god held sway. Their gilded roofs shone in the sun, reflecting the light of Heaven out into the world. Each threshold was flanked by statues of the god’s servant spirits who carried their tools and symbols.
In the case of the temple of Chun Ja, her two serving maids each held one hand over the door and beckoned the supplicant with the other. Chun Ja stood at the Threshold of Life and laid her hand on the head of each child as they passed. The shape of her divine palm left the impression of the individual’s destiny on their skull. Since Chun Ja knew all destinies, she also presided over the creation of horoscopes and all types of personal divination.
It might be argued that Chun Ja would have had no part in the making of the destiny of a barbarian child, but she would know the destinies of those the child interacted with in Hung-Tse and therefore might be consulted on this matter.
“The cart means travel, but it can also mean release from a burden or …”
Xuan froze on the temple threshold, startled by the light voice. Two people crouched on the floor of the temple, overshadowed by the statue of Chun Ja on her jade altar. Their startled faces gazed up at him. An old man in the plain black coat and cap of a scholar crouched beside a child dressed in a coat and trousers of rich blue. The coat’s grey cuffs and collar marked her as a hostage guest to the Heart of the World. One of the female soldiers who guarded the women’s palace and the dowager’s residence stood silent sentry beside the door. Behind them, the life-sized image of Chun Ja, the Goddess of Childbirth, on her carved jade altar seemed to be supervising their study.
The two immediately got to their feet, the child in a swift scramble, the old man in a stiff and dignified motion. They folded their left hands over their right fists as was proper, and bowed deeply.
“Forgive us, Excellency,” said the scholar. Xuan now recognized him as Master Liaozhai. “In seeking to instill energy and virtue in my pupil, I woke her early to her studies. If we had known you would be seeking the guidance of Chun Ja this morning, we would have sought another lesson.”
Xuan and An Thao bowed briefly to acknowledge this polite and pious greeting. An Thao said, “Do not concern yourself, Master Liaozhai. Is not the pursuit of knowledge worth a few extra moments of searching?”
Master Liaozhai bowed his head. “His Excellency speaks wisely.”
The floor of Chun Ja’s temple was carved and painted with the Great Star Wheel. The four guardians and the characters of the zodiac surrounded the concentric circles that held the symbols of fate: the cart, the cup, the fish, the needle, the drunkard, the soldier, and all the rest. Several neatly painted telling sticks lay across the symbols. Master Liaozhai had been teaching his student the art of interpreting divination by laying the rune sticks down in various positions and having her read the possibilities there. Xuan remembered his own tutors doing the same with him.
Normally, Xuan enjoyed the sight of a young person at their studies, but now uneasiness crept through him. Could it possibly be chance that brought Tsan Nu to this place when Xuan came to inquire of her future? Xuan glanced up at the goddess in her red silk robes, her hands extended and cupped, waiting for those who would pass beneath her.
Did you bring us all here, farseeing Chun Ja? Is this a message from Heaven?
There were only a very few moments when even the most sensitive of sorcerers could truly feel fate’s delicate threads surround them. Those who were wise did not fear such moments, but welcomed them. Xuan could not raise any welcome within him, only the chill of foreboding. If this moment was shaped by Chun Ja, what had the Goddess of Destiny brought them all here to see?
The child Tsan Nu stood slightly behind her tutor, her hands folded and her eyes properly cast down. She was a slight creature, with pale skin. A lock of black hair had escaped the tidy knot at the nape of her neck and coiled like a spring over her temple. Xuan found a moment to feel pity. Whatever must happen, it would not go easily for the child.
But then, now might be his chance to take the child’s measure with more than just the tools of divination. Character was vital to destiny. If there had been only one destiny for each person, then action would be useless. All would be written. But what true sorcerers knew was that Chun Ja placed both her hands on each person’s head. The right hand made the imprint of the evil destiny, the left the imprint of the righteous destiny. It was up to each to choose and to work to travel their righteous path. The other waited for those who were lazy or abandoned their duty.
Two destinies, even for those whose souls were incomplete.
“I must make my devotions, Master Liaozhai,” Xuan said, at last recovering himself enough to speak. “Then, if you will permit it, we will see how well your pupil has learned her lessons.”
Master Liaozhai bowed again. “We would be most honored, Excellency.”
Xuan knelt before the altar and pressed his forehead three times against the cool stone floor. The altar was crowded with cut flowers, bags of coins, and caches of rice or fruit. Sticks of incense smoldered in trays of sand, filling the air with their perfume. Once every eight days the Garden of Heaven was opened to the city so that all might come and honor the gods and the departed emperors. Parents flocked to Chun Ja, praying for good lives for their children, or thanking her for blessings received.
Honored Chun Ja, I pray you open the eyes of your humble servant to that which must be and that which might be.
Xuan stood and faced the child and her tutor again. He remembered the day Tsan Nu’s father, Valin Kalami, had brought her here as an infant. She had been a red and wrinkled
babe, with a thick shock of black hair, and thoroughly unhappy. While the baby wailed, An Thao and Chi Tahn together walked the zodiac circle and cast the telling sticks, and what they had revealed had almost caused An Thao to lose her composure before the foreign sorcerer with his infant wriggling in his arms.
Power, the telling said. Power and sight, salvation in danger for Hung-Tse. He had watched Valin Kalami, as he watched them make their silent interpretation. Kalami knew, he was sure, that the child was destined to power, but did he know how much? Could he know and still give her into the Heart as surety for his risky plans? Or did he have some plan other than the ones he had told them of?
For nine years the Elders had considered that question, and no answer had come to them. Spies in the Isavaltan court reported that Kalami did as he promised and undermined the dowager and her rule. An Thao reported regularly that the child had taken well to her nurses and her tutors. She had shown filial respect and affection when her father visited her. Her tutors in the spirit gifts had all been instructed to inform the ministers if they discerned any unusual displays of power, but none of them had done so yet.
Xuan folded his hands and let his face be the serene mask of centuries behind the tattoos that covered his skin, protecting him and imparting to him the powers of her office. “Master Liaozhai, I would have Tsan Nu cast a horoscope for me now.”
Master Liaozhai bowed in acknowledgment. “Whose future shall she divine, Excellency?”
Xuan considered. “Her own, Master Liaozhai.” When the child was finished, Xuan could cast a second horoscope, and see how well the two matched. That first horoscope made nine years ago predicted Tsan Nu would have great gifts when it came to seeing and calling on the future. This would be a good test of that power. A child of nine years who could cast a horoscope that was even partially accurate would be a remarkable person indeed.
Those who knew little of magic wondered why true sorcerers did not cast horoscopes and draw birth charts constantly, as the frauds and illusionists did. They did not understand that the gods, in their wisdom, frowned upon those who spent too much time trying to see what their path was rather than traveling along it. As a result, they required deep and exhausting magics to reach past the Veil of Now.
Master Liaozhai turned to his student. “You have your task, Tsan Nu.” Tsan Nu bowed politely in return, both to her tutor and to Xuan. She had learned her manners well at the very least. The child tried to remain composed, but her nervousness showed as she picked up the bundle of telling sticks from the floor and shuffled through them, looking for her year, month, day, and hour. When she found the correct symbols, she handed the remaining sticks to her tutor, glancing up at him for reassurance. He nodded slightly, his whole manner radiating calm. Xuan was certainly not the first to test the child in such a fashion and Master Liaozhai’s stance and calm spoke of confidence in his pupil. This was a difficult spell, although it was the easiest of the possible horoscopes to cast, because the chart was already drawn, and it could be worked in a relatively short amount of time.
The child took the telling sticks in both hands and stationed herself on the east side of the zodiac circle, beginning where the dawn rose. She bowed once in each of the four outer directions, and bowed a fifth time to acknowledge the center. Then, she began to walk sunward around the circle, her movements each performed with the care of a child who knows very well she is observed. She completed a circuit in silent prayer to Chun Ja, and on the second circuit she began to sing.
“The path is unknown and
Cannot be seen,
But light may shine for
Eyes that seek.
Chun Ja, let your servant see.
Chun Ja, let your servant know.
The path of Tsan Nu Kalami
Who stands here with humble heart.
Chun Ja, let your servant see.
Chun Ja, let your servant know.”
Xuan felt the air thicken around him, filling with the currents of the magic Tsan Nu drew to her. They slid across his skin like purest water, chilling and awakening his inward senses — his mind’s eye and his heart’s understanding. The touch was strong, stronger than Xuan expected. Warning prickled in the back of his mind, but he resolved to wait and watch.
“Chun Ja, let your servant see.
Chun Ja, let your servant know.”
Tsan Nu completed the second circuit, and the third, weaving the pattern of song and motion. The magics thickened and strengthened and the child’s voice began to shake. She completed the fourth circuit. Xuan felt the air press against her lungs. Master Liaozhai clasped his hands together, but not before Xuan saw them tremble. Only the guard by the door remained unmoved. Untouched by gifts of spirit she could feel nothing of this steady, deepening cold.
“Chun Ja, let your servant know.
The path of Tsan Nu …”
Stop her, said all the instincts born of memory and ministry in the back of Xuan’s mind. This is too much, too strong. It cannot be contained by one child. Stop her.
But the warning came too late. As Xuan raised his hand, Tsan Nu completed the fifth circuit and tossed the telling sticks out into the air, her face elated with the power of her spell. The magic caught them and whirled them around …
… And shattered them with a sound like firecrackers bursting.
Tsan Nu cried out as if in pain. Liaozhai grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back from the edge of the circle as the splinters clattered onto the stone floor, scattering like straws. Xuan’s heart pounded against his ribs. Even the guard had startled, going automatically into a ready stance with her spear in both hands.
“Excellency,” murmured Master Liaozhai, staring at the zodiac circle.
Xuan looked as well, and his throat constricted. He had for an instant thought Master Liaozhai wanted him to interpret what had happened here, but as he looked down, he saw that the telling sticks were not all that was broken.
A crack ran across the temple floor, splitting the zodiac circle in two. It started at the sign of the Phoenix, and ran black and jagged to the base of Chun Ja’s altar. The splintered telling sticks had fallen to either side of the crack. Not one fragment lay across it.
Tsan Nu was trembling. Master Liaozhai, oblivious to propriety, drew her close for comfort, but although the child huddled in the folds of his black robes, her tremors did not ease.
“What does it mean, Excellency?” asked the ancient teacher.
Xuan opened his mouth without speaking. His mind was awhirl. Never had he seen such a thing, not across centuries. No memory, no voice spoke to him. He looked at the splinters, saw them crossing cup and cart, book and fire, horse, crane and chameleon and a dozen other symbols. A dozen futures, a hundred, and none of them made any pattern.
The crack started at the Phoenix, emanating from its gilded breast like a black thunderbolt. What did it mean? What was his guardian, his other self, trying to tell him?
“It means death,” said the child.
Xuan stared at the child, pressed close to her tutor.
“It means we’re going to die,” Tsan Nu said again. “All of us. It’s the end of the world.”
Master Liaozhai laid his old hand on her head, as if seeking to reshape the destiny Chun Ja had imprinted there, but he looked to Xuan for words. So did the child, and even the guard.
Xuan wanted to look to Chun Ja. He wanted to fall down in prayer to the goddess and ask her what this meant, but he could not. He was voice and memory, he was gate and guard, and he must act that part now.
“It is a common thing to see death in such a drama,” he said, drawing himself up into a more properly composed stance. “But death comes from the earth and the north, not from the sky and the south.” He nodded to the tortoise sign, which waited serene and untouched by any crack or splinter. “This is a difficult thing to read and will take time to interpret. Clearly it is a strong message …”
“It’s death!” Tsan Nu stomped her foot. “We must all get away from her
e. The Heart is going to die!”
“Tsan Nu,” said Master Liaozhai. “Do not shame us with this display.”
She pulled away from Master Liaozhai and stood with her arms wrapped around herself. She did not, Xuan saw, look down at the broken circles. “But he’s not listening! He asked me to see the future and now he doesn’t want to know what it says.” The pique was childish, but the fear was real.
“It is not for the Minister of Fire to listen,” said the tutor, giving Tsan Nu a small shake. “It is for us to hear.”
The child clamped her mouth shut, but she was clearly not mollified.
Xuan, remembering the first horoscope and the strength of Tsan Nu’s magic, felt a thread of chill run down his spine. He felt certain Tsan Nu’s interpretation of this … horoscope, if it could be truly called that, was not just an attempt to get attention. She believed what she said.
“Why do you believe it is death for the Heart?” asked Xuan. “It could be change. It could be that the new home of the imperial wisdom must be chosen.” It was not permissible to speak of the death of the emperor, even among the High Ministers.
“You don’t see it?” Tsan Nu frowned. “It’s there.” She pointed down at the shattered zodiac, the scattered splinters, and the jagged crack.
Xuan made himself look down and focus on the symbols, on the directions of the splinters, and how they crossed one another. It took all his strength to set aside the fact that the crack came from the Phoenix. “I see change and travel, fortune and misfortune both.”
