Empress in Danger

by Zoey Gong

  “The emperor would not have banished you here if you followed the rules,” she says with a smirk.

  I breathe a little easier knowing she is still in the dark about my past. I want to tell her the truth, long to tell her, but I have yet to find the courage.

  “I am torn,” I say. “I always seem to be facing monumental decisions. Decisions that will determine the course of the rest of my life.”

  “There are no monumental decisions,” Tao Fashi says. “Nor are there inconsequential ones. Every choice you make changes the path of your life. Will you have eggs or baozi for breakfast?”

  I shrug. “Does it matter?”

  “What if the eggs are rotten and you sicken and die?”

  “Oh. I see what you mean.” I pause before continuing. “I think I could stay here, try to live a life of peace and quiet. It would not be a bad life. I would be safe here.”

  She nods. “Many of the women here are content, if not happy.”

  “Exactly. But equally do I wonder if Suyin’s arrival means I should leave. She would come with me, of course, so I would not be alone. Merely having a companion could give me the strength to do what I really want to do—find my family.”

  For a moment, surprise flashes across Tao Fashi’s face. She knows my official history—Empress Lihua’s history. The history that says I was raised as the only daughter of a general and high-born lady. This is the first time I have given her any indication that my past is not what she thinks. But her surprise is so fleeting, I have to believe that—like Suyin—Tao Fashi has long suspected that I might not be who I have claimed to be.

  “Is your desire to leave truly equal with the desire to stay?” she asks me, and I do not hesitate to answer.

  “No. If I were truly free to choose, I would choose my family.”

  She nodded. “Then I think you have your answer.”

  My heart sings for a moment. Has Tao Fashi, a woman everyone listens to and respects, given me her permission to leave this place? The feeling of elation lasts only a moment before I am pulled back to reality.

  “But it cannot be that simple. If the emperor were to find out, he would be furious. His mercy would surely be spent. He would want me to be put to death if he ever found me.”

  “What scares you more,” Tao Fashi asks, “to never see your family again, or death for looking for them.”

  Tears well up in my eyes. I know the answer. My life has been in danger from the moment I accepted Mingxia’s money. I do not fear death. Still, part of me is afraid to admit the truth. I guess I have lived behind a shield of lies for so long that the truth frightens me more than an executioner’s ax.

  “But what about you?” I ask. “If the emperor thinks you let me leave this place or let me escape, he could turn his wrath toward you instead.”

  Tao Fashi laughs. “I may be old, but I’m not as frail as I look.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  She reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. “You take on far too many of other people’s burdens. It shows in the dark parts of your eyes. Such weight you carry! Let them go, Daiyu.”

  I sigh and can almost feel heavy stones tumbling from my shoulders to the floor. It is a relief, but also do I feel weak. As if I do not know how to stand if I am not carrying my worries with me.

  Tao Fashi stands and pulls me up next to her. “Go to bed. Have a rest, and tomorrow the way forward will be more clear to you.”

  I hug Tao Fashi for a long moment. “Thank you.”

  She nods and squeezes my shoulders before gently pushing me away. “Go.”

  As I walk back across the courtyard, I feel so happy, it is a feeling I hardly recognize. I will speak to Suyin as soon as she wakes. She will certainly not want to stay here. It will be hard for me to leave this beautiful and peaceful place, but the thought of finding my family fills me with excitement. I have no idea how I will find them, but I have to at least try.

  I open the door to the sleeping quarters and have to blink twice when I see a person standing next to my bed. I think it must be one of the other nuns who has woken early. But as my eyes adjust, I realize that the person is not one of my sisters.

  A man dressed all in black, including the lower part of his face, looks at me. When he sees me, his eyes go large as if he has seen a ghost. He looks down at my bed, and then back at me. I look at my bed and see the lump under my blanket that is Suyin.

  I then see the knife in the man’s hand. The knife dripping black in the darkness. A scream pierces my ears as a pain washes over my body like a tidal wave. The world spins, and I am drowning.

  The man who seemed frozen a moment ago stumbles back. I then realize that he hears the scream as well—the scream that is coming from me. I hear a commotion as a brazier is lit and the other sleeping women are startled from sleep.

  Suyin does not stir. My scream dies away as I run out of breath and fall to my knees. Screams and shouts fill the room as I crawl toward the bed, my whole body shaking. The man turns and jumps from an open window. There is panic as the women try to make sense of what has happened. Some rush out of the room as if to catch the man. Some women huddle together in fear. But I can only see the lump in my bed that has not moved despite the commotion around it.

  I pull the gray blanket back. There, lying on her side, eyes closed, is Suyin. For a moment, I wonder if I had been dreaming. That the vision of the man had been merely a nightmare. Then I see the dark red stain growing across the thin mattress. I shake Suyin’s shoulder. I whisper her name. I tug her onto her back and see the thin slash across her throat. There are gasps from behind me. Someone screams. Someone faints. But I cannot take my eyes off my friend.

  She looks as though she is still merely sleeping. Her eyes closed, her mouth slightly parted. I shake her again, hoping that the gash was not deep enough to kill her. She is simply sleeping soundly as she always has. But she doesn’t respond.

  I shake her again, harder. “Suyin!” I say, my voice stronger. She doesn’t move, and the red blood rushes out from the wound at her neck.

  “Daiyu,” one of the sisters behind me whispers. I feel her hand on my shoulder, and it is then that I accept that this is no dream. Not a nightmare. Suyin, my dear friend, my only friend, is dead.

  I groan as I slide my right arm under her head. I wrap my other arm around her chest and hug her tightly. I rock her as I cry into her chest, her warm blood coating us both. I beg the goddess to save her. To take me instead. I know it is too late, but I pray anyway.

  Oh, Suyin… My dear Suyin…

  4

  “The dowager did this,” I say to Tao Fashi, standing before Suyin’s grave. The rest of the sisters have all left us, one by one slinking away back to the abbey. They only attended the funeral out of respect, but none of them knew Suyin. They barely know me. Of course, they all regret the loss of a young life, but none of them mourn her. In all the world, I am the only person alive who does. No one else who knew her knows she is dead. I will have to write to her parents. But what exactly will I tell them? They will want to know what happened to their daughter. I cannot tell them the truth. How could I? If I tell them she was murdered, they will want to know by whom.

  I am certain the dowager empress, Fenfeng, is the person who sent the assassin, but I cannot prove it. The assassin escaped into the night. He will never be found. When the empress finds out that he failed to kill me, she will want this head on a pike.

  No, the assassin will never be found. Fenfeng will never be held responsible. And Suyin’s spirit will forever wander this place as a vengeful ghost. Tao Fashi places a bowl of rice and a plate of oranges before Suyin’s grave, offerings to at least prevent the spirit from going hungry.

  “Why would Fenfeng want to kill your maid?” she asks, not looking at me. Her face is pale and tired. Lines crease the sides of her mouth and bags are under her eyes. She seems to have aged significantly since Suyin’s death only a couple of days ago. It is not from grief, but from the stress and strain Suyin�
�s death has brought to her once peaceful home. The women are all afraid. If a killer could slip in silently among them, no one is safe.

  “She didn’t,” I say. “She sent him to kill me. Suyin was sleeping on my bed. He meant to kill me.”

  Tao Fashi’s jaw tightens as she considers this. “Then he must have been watching you for a few days at least, watching us, if he knew which bed was yours.”

  I think back to the few, tense moments in the woods before Suyin had made herself known to me. I had been certain that I was not alone. I initially thought Suyin had been the reason for that feeling. But now…now I am not so certain.

  “Tao Fashi!” a nun calls out. Tao Fashi gives the woman a small nod.

  “I must go. I have duties to attend to. Will you come inside? It may not be safe out here.”

  I look around the pine forest and hear only birds chirping in the trees. The burial ground is north of the abbey, which I can see on the hill behind us.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say. “I’d like a moment alone with my friend.”

  Tao Fashi nods and goes with the nun back to the abbey. Once she is gone, I feel completely alone. I do not believe the assassin is nearby, seeking another opportunity to finish this task. Nor do I feel Suyin’s spirit hanging around. Is she at peace? Has her spirit already found its way to the hall of her ancestors? I doubt it. How could her soul ever find rest after being murdered so senselessly?

  No, she is not at rest. It is more likely that her spirit does not think me worthy of her presence, even to torment me. As my maid, she fulfilled her duty—she served me until the end. And I was not worthy. She will stand by my side no longer.

  “I am so sorry,” I say, even though I am sure no one is listening. “I will tell your parents. I do not know what I will say, but I will not let them worry over the fate of their daughter. I will send them the money you saved. They will be taken care of.” Among Suyin’s things, I found her purse. Inside was no small amount. If I took it for myself and lived thriftily, I could probably live off it for the rest of my life. But I will not keep it. It is not mine to take. Somehow, I will make sure it reaches her family.

  The sound of galloping horse hooves immediately sets my heart racing. I duck down behind Suyin’s grave mound, and it takes me a moment to realize I don’t have a reason to be afraid. An assassin wouldn’t come riding up to the front gate, plain for all to see.

  Still, I am cautious as I creep down toward the road leading to the abbey. I stay low and move from tree to tree, keeping myself as hidden as possible. I see the rider as he reaches the carved stairs leading up to the abbey. It is clear from his armor and helmet that he is an imperial guard. He dismounts and rushes up the stairs in a great hurry, his long ride from the Forbidden City slowing him not at all.

  I crouch down in the brush, not sure I want to hear what the guard has come to tell us. In my many months here, we have never received official news from the Forbidden City. Occasionally, some of the nuns have received letters from friends and former servants still living within the great red walls. But not a single letter, missive, or order has arrived from the emperor or on his behalf. Truly, it feels as though the women sentenced to spend the rest of their lives in the Temple of Grief have been forgotten.

  Whatever message this imperial guard has brought us must be of great importance. My first thought, naturally, is that the emperor is dead. He had been so grievously injured and seemed to be in such pain when I last saw him. I cover my mouth as I feel sick at the thought. But Suyin said that the emperor had recovered somewhat. And he had been injured months ago. If he were going to die, surely he would have already.

  But if not to announce the death of the emperor, why has the messenger come? To announce the death of the dowager empress? No, I think not. We would be informed, certainly, but by an urgent imperial guard? I doubt it.

  I then wonder if the empress has somehow learned that her assassin failed. While she will certainly learn of my current state of living soon enough, I do not think she would know of it just yet. Still, I wonder for a moment if it would be better if I remain hidden. Am I being paranoid to wonder if the messenger is here for me specifically?

  For another moment, I crouch, sit, and wait until my curiosity gets the better of me and I decide I need to find out whatever it is the messenger has come all this way to say.

  I slip silently up the stairs to find most of the nuns gathered in the courtyard. I don’t see the messenger anywhere. The nuns share worried whispers with one another about what the messenger’s arrival could mean for us.

  “Where has he gone?” I ask one of the women who hardly seems to register my presence.

  “To speak privately to Tao Fashi,” she says, nodding toward the main temple. Her voice is tight and anxious, but her words bring me some relief to know that I am not the man’s reason for visiting. Only a moment later, the messenger and Tao Fashi emerge from the temple, speaking low, their heads close together. Tao Fashi’s face is grave. She gives a heavy sigh and looks around the courtyard at the gathered women. I try to blend into the crowd and remain unseen, but Tao Fashi’s piercing gaze finds me. Her eyes linger on mine for a long moment before she addresses us all.

  “My dear sisters,” she says, her voice loud and clear but masking pain. “I regret to inform you that Guozhi, our great emperor, is dead.”

  5

  Just as we had after the death of Empress Caihong, everyone in the empire mourned the death of the emperor. We dressed in all white, even covering our long hair with white scarves, and kneeled in the courtyard from dawn until dark. We cried and wailed and kowtowed. Tao Fashi took the lead in singing songs of prayer and mourning, but whenever her voice gave out, one of the other senior sisters would take her place.

  The sun was bright and hot and shone down on us for more than twelve hours each day. Our skin burned and our lips cracked, and some of the women passed out from the strain of it all. Still, we kept up the practice for two weeks, as was custom.

  For my part, it did not feel as though the mourning had lasted long enough. I do not know if he was a great emperor, or even a good one. I had so doubted his decisions that I openly defied him, even risking my life to do so. But he was a good man. A man who always believed that he was doing the right thing. A man who had been kind to me. A man who had shown me great mercy when I did not deserve it.

  He had made me an empress.

  But the emperor had died without a son, which had always been one of his greatest fears. I dared not ask who the emperor’s successor was, but word reached my ears anyway. Prince Honghui was now the emperor.

  I tried not to think about this fact while mourning Emperor Guozhi. It wasn’t right for me to do so. Still, as the long, hot days dragged on, it was often only thoughts of Honghui that gave me the strength to endure.

  Another emperor had never died in my lifetime, so I had no idea how people in Peking were mourning the loss of one emperor and celebrating the rise of another one at the same time. Still, I imagined Honghui dressed in the sumptuous yellow silk dragon robe of the emperor. His hair washed, oiled, and plaited long down his back. The red-fringed hat upon his head. His face freshly shaven. How handsome, how regal, he must look, sitting upon the dragon throne.

  But also, how lonely. His mother had died when he was but a child, as had his father. Guozhi was his only family. He was not yet married, and had no children. My heart ached for him. I wished I could be there by his side, but such a thing was impossible. I was banished here, to the Temple of Grief, and here was where I was to spend the rest of my days. Even if I had not been banished to this place previously, I suppose I would be now. Many of the women who lived here now were widowed consorts of previous emperors. I wondered briefly, happily, if that meant that I would soon see my friend Yanmei again. Dear, kind Yanmei. I had not heard from her since my banishment. I’m sure she was forbidden from writing to me. But what a joy it would be to see her again.

  It was these thoughts of old friends, old lovers, t
hat sustained me during the long days and hours of mourning for Emperor Guozhi. I wondered if his death meant that my life was now effectively over as well. There was now no chance of me being summoned back to the Forbidden City. And since Suyin had died, I did not know if I had the courage to ever leave the abbey on my own.

  I looked around at my sisters, most well more than twice my age, gray-haired, wrinkled, almost all without children. Was this the future I had to look forward to? But if so, why did the dowager empress send someone to kill me? How could I possibly pose a threat to her now? I was literally no one, my name completely erased from palace records.

  True, I did know, or at least believed, that she had also been behind the attempt on Empress Caihong’s life. But I could never prove it. Nor did I even want to. The assassination attempt had failed. Caihong had died in childbirth, as far too many women do, to the blame of no one. Of course, what the dowager empress had done was a wicked, evil thing to do, but exposing her now would bring me no peace. I only wanted to erase Fenfeng from my mind completely. Could she not do the same? Forget me as her son had done?

  As the sun sets on our fourteenth day of mourning, almost all of the women walk achily to the bathhouse, many leaning on one another for support. Some are so weak they have to be carried away. My knees hurt so greatly, the pain it causes when I try to move does not seem worth the effort. I move, inch by belabored inch, from kneeling to sitting. I am in no rush. Where would I go? I had kneeled for two weeks, what was a few hours more?

  “Fourteen days of meditation, yet still your mind seems troubled,” Tao Fashi says as she approaches me. She has dragged a small stool along with her to sit upon. At her age, her knees must be far more sore than mine. I feel a twinge of guilt that I should complain of aches and pains when I am still so young. I attempt to complete my transition to a sitting position more quickly and instantly regret it, crying out in pain as my eyes water.