The Han Empire
Twelve-year old Cài Lún finished dressing and ran to get his morning meal before Elder Chu arrived. The elder would arrive at any moment to begin Lún’s daily instruction. He was likely to still be cross because Lún had misdrawn three characters on a test the day before. Not for the first time, Lún wished he had a brother who could absorb some of the grumpy instructor’s attention.
The elder’s mood won’t be improved if he has to wait for me to finish eating.
Lún lived with his parents in a walled estate a short walk from the Imperial Palace, where his father was a member of the court. Emperor Xuandi was the tenth Son of Heaven of the Han Dynasty. Lún could read and write four thousand characters but needed to learn at least another three thousand before he could become a scholar like his father.
The family took its meals in an unadorned room in the back of the house. The painted white walls were bare, and the only furniture was a small bright red table that sat at kneeling height on woven mats covering the brick floor.
Lún bolted into the room and skidded to a quick stop when he found his mother waiting for him. She’d opened the parchment-covered shutters to the room’s window and was gazing out at a flower garden. Three servants were already busy weeding and watering the plants. It was early summer, and the jumbled warble of finches in the aviary carried into the room on a warm breeze.
Lún bowed as his mother turned. “Good morning, Ma Ma. I’m sorry I’m late.”
Cái Ji smiled and returned his bow. “I’ve asked Elder Chu to begin your instruction a half hour later beginning today. Perhaps that will help you be on time.”
Lún grinned. “Great! Perhaps I can also sleep a bit later.”
“Then you’ll find me much more difficult to deal with than your teacher.”
The empire followed the path of Confucius, so Cài Ji had no official status in or outside the home. But only a foolish boy would confuse the lack of status for the lack of influence. Besides, Lún revered his mother. He nodded and accepted the gentle warning. “Thank you for the additional time. I will be prompt.”
Lún realized she was staring at his face, making him wonder if it was dirty or if he’d sprouted a blemish.
“Your eyes are lavender, Cài Lún! You’ve begun Guòdù!”
“Gods!” Lún ran back through the house to his bedroom and stared into a framed piece of polished bronze hanging from a wall. He’d seen other kids in Guòdù and their eyes glowed with an inner light. His reflection in the tinted surface didn’t look like that, but it was clear that his eyes were no longer dark brown. An eerie light color stared back at him.
At last!
The Guòdù ritual was a secret, known only to the emperor and his scholars and used only with the permission of the emperor. Lún’s voice had started changing about three months ago, and his father had begun instructing him about the ritual. He taught Lún that he would die if he tried to use the magic for something that had been done already. And that he was honor-bound to use magic for a grand purpose that would benefit the emperor and the people of China, not just himself.
His father had made a promise. If Lún could convince him that he had a unique and worthy purpose, he would seek the emperor’s permission for Lún to use Guòdù.
Since then, Lún had spent every spare moment thinking about how he would use magic. He shared his ideas with his father, starting over time and again when his thoughts were rejected as unworthy or unlikely to be unique. Each time Lún felt like he got little closer; his father had to work harder to find flaws. Then a week ago, the only criticism had been Lún’s choice of words, not what the words were intended to accomplish.
Lún carried a piece of paper in his pocket that corrected those faults. He hoped.
He danced back through the house to his mother. “I’m going to the palace to tell Ba Ba.”
Cài Ji shook her head. “Your father should not be interrupted. You have just enough time to eat your meal before Elder Chu arrives. You can discuss Guòdù with your father when he returns this evening.”
Lún had told his mother about each hard step on his path to use Guòdù. More than once he’d gone to her crying, complaining that his father was being unfair. Each time she’d held him, dried his tears, and reminded him that his honored and revered father hadn’t used magic. Each time Lún returned to the challenge. His mother knew what was on the paper that he carried.
“Do you think he’ll permit me to use magic?”
“Don’t ask foolish questions of your mother. Your father doesn’t confide in me any more than he confides in boys. Nor should he, unless he wishes to lose face among the other court scholars. Now, quit talking and sit.”
Lún kneeled at the shiny scarlet table and sat back on his ankles. His mother went to the kitchen and returned, placing a porcelain bowl of rice mixed with bits of dog and mushrooms in front of him. Next to this she set a bowl of a wrinkled, tear-shaped food he didn’t recognize.
She was always trying to get him and his father to eat alien food that came from the western trade routes. He picked up one of the strange brown shapes and sniffed it. It had a pungent smell and made his fingers sticky. “What’s this?”
Ji placed a cup of watered wine next to the rice. “It’s called a Turkish fig.”
Lún took a bite, chewed, and was surprised by the sudden flood of honeyed sweetness. He swallowed, popped the rest of the fig into his mouth, and reached for another one. “Not all foods from the foreigners are bad.”
She smiled. “As long as it’s sweet, at least. Finish your meal and join your teacher.” She left the room; she’d eat in the kitchen after he’d finished.
• • • • •
At three score and two, Elder Chu looked more like a bent gnome than a man. A few white hairs sprouted from his bald head, a few more from his sparse beard. His body appeared frail, but Lún had soon learned that his sharp tongue was driven by a keen mind. He seemed to know all there was to know in the world but had a special passion for science.
When he’d first started teaching Lún, the elder had installed a water clock in the estate’s study room. He used the clock to teach the principles of science and philosophy and to determine when he’d completed eight hours of daily instruction.
The steady drips of water and creeping indicator rod made long days seem longer to Lún. Today was one of the slowest. The more anxious Lún became for the day to end, the longer it took for each drop of water to fall.
Elder Chu spent the first half of the day on the usual stuff—philosophy, science, literature, and the history of China. There was no mention of the change in Lún’s eyes or Guòdù. Lún’s father believed that subject should be learned in the home, not in school.
He and the elder took a brief break for a mid-day meal, then returned to the study for lessons in reading and writing. The elder had Lún write a series of characters, including the ones he’d missed on the test the day before.
Lún handed him the paper and held his breath.
“A chicken couldn’t read this, even though it looks like a chicken may have written it.”
“I’m sorry, Master. I’ll try again.”
Lún took a new piece of paper and repeated the characters. It was a slow, exquisite torture.
He used the same materials for writing that were used by the Imperial Court’s scribes—a thick page of pounded hemp with a sharpened, thin stick of bamboo that he dipped in a pot of ink. The surface was rough, as was his knowledge of the new symbols he was learning. The combination often made his writing unreadable.
He held his work up for re-examination.
“Better,” Elder Lún said. “I believe a very clever chicken could now read this. Do it again.”
Cài Lún sighed. “It’s impossible to write on pounded hemp. It’s too rough.”
“It’s done every day, by hundreds of scribes. You’re lucky to have such materials. The court is using every sheet it can commission, but it takes too long to produc
e them and supplies still run low. Do it again, without complaint.”
The afternoon crawled by a drip at a time until eight hours had passed. As soon as Elder Chu took his leave by the rear gate, Lún ran to the front of the house and out the door to wait for his father’s arrival.
In addition to the family’s home, there were four other buildings on the estate—a temple, a guest house, a stable, and the servant’s quarters—and enough land for gardens and pasture. A waist high, dry-laid stone wall surrounded the property.
The main house faced a pedestrian gate across an expanse of emerald-green grass. Between the house and the wall was a fountain where a carved stone koi as tall as a man stood on its tail, water spilling from its mouth into the small pond surrounding it. A dozen polished mahogany chairs and benches were placed in various arrangements around the fountain. Scattered among the chairs were large stone pots, each containing a topiary of a mythical Chinese creature.
Lún’s mother was sitting on a bench next to the pond, facing the gate. Lún sat beside her.
“How were your studies today?”
“Elder Chu was unhappy with me. I couldn’t think of anything but Guòdù, and my writing was hard to read.”
His mother nodded, as if unsurprised. “Should we send Elder Chu away for a month, until Guòdù is complete?”
Lún wished she would do exactly that, but knew the question wasn’t serious. It was her way of telling him to not let Guòdù interfere with his instruction. And besides, his father would kill him if he dared suggest such a thing. “No, Ma Ma. I’ll be better able to concentrate on my studies after I talk with father.”
“We shall see.”
Lún was wondering what she meant when he caught sight of his father on the path that led to the estate. Cài Bang stared at the ground, his head down like he was walking against a strong wind, although the air was calm.
Why is he so slow? Usually I have to run to keep up with him.
Lún glanced at his mother. Her face remained calm, but he saw a slight tightening around her eyes.
She wonders also.
The cut in the wall was wide enough to permit two people walking beside each other to pass. The forged iron gate was open as it always was, a signal of confidence and hospitality. Lún and his mother stood and bowed as Cài entered the grounds of the estate.
His father returned their bows, his face twisting into a scowl as his gaze settled on Lún. “We will speak of your transition after our evening meal.”
What’s wrong? Why isn’t he happy for me?
“Ba Ba, please. I’ve waited all day. I don’t think I can wait any longer.”
His father’s face relaxed. “It does not matter how slowly you go so long as you do not stop.”
Lún groaned to himself.
Confucius again? I’d rather talk to my father than listen to the words of a dead man.
• • • • •
Lún and his father finished their meal and returned to the front of the house. They sat next to a winged lion, facing each other across a small table. Lún felt like the meal had taken forever, but his mind had been so consumed by the coming conversation that he didn’t remember eating. The soothing flow of water from the fountain and light scent of evergreen failed to calm his thoughts.
Cài Bang had changed from his court clothing into a jade green yi with a wide, open collar over a loose black silk skirt. He was a small man, not much taller than Lún, with a scholar’s soft skin the color of cream. His hair was piled in a bun on top of his head and secured with an enameled red dragon.
He turned from gazing at the fountain and stared at Lún. “Do you still wish to use Guòdù to honor and expand the Han Empire? Honor that would last for all time?”
Lún nodded. “With all my soul, Ba Ba.”
“Then I’m required by the emperor to test your readiness.”
Lún nodded.
“If I teach you the words, you must never tell them to anyone, other than your own sons, and then only with the permission of the emperor himself. Not your daughters. Not your mother. Not brothers or sisters. Do you understand and agree to this?”
“Yes, father.”
“If you use the ritual words for personal wealth or to avoid your responsibilities to your emperor and the empire, you will dishonor our family. Our name will be forgotten and your life forfeited. Do you understand this?”
“Yes, father.”
“If you use the ritual words for something for which it has been used before, you will die. Do you understand this?”
“Yes, father.”
“Those are the emperor’s questions, Lún. Now, have you written the words for the magic you wish to use?”
Lún hesitated. “Yes, Ba Ba, but—”
“What?”
“I think I have them perfect, but how can I know?”
“‘Better a diamond with a flaw than a pebble without.’ Give me what you have.”
Lún reached into the folds of his yi, withdrew the piece of rough flax, and handed it across the table.
His father unfolded the paper and studied it. “I think these words are satisfactory. There’s no way I can know if magic has been used with this idea before. It’s certainly possible, perhaps even likely. So, I ask you again. Are you prepared to die?”
Lún’s heart pounded in his chest. He felt beads of sweat pop out on his face, even though the evening air was cool.
Am I?
“I am.”
Cài Bang handed the page back to Lún. “Those words belong to you. I won’t tell the court about them or share them with anyone else.” He stood and bowed to Lún. “I am satisfied that you are prepared to accept the responsibilities of Guòdù. I will petition the court for permission to teach you the words.”
Lún leaped to his feet. This was the first time his father had initiated a bow to him. Lún returned the bow, dipping below his waist. “Thank you, Ba Ba. I am honored by your trust.”
Then Lún did something he hadn’t done since he was a little kid. He dodged around the table and threw his arms around his father, squeezing as hard as he could, not letting go.
Cài Bang stiffened, then grabbed Lún in a fierce hug. “I am honored to have such a son. Now sit, we have other matters to discuss that may affect your intention to use Guòdù.”
Lún returned to his chair.
What other matters? He said he’d get permission to teach me the words.
His father sat down and sighed. “In thirty days your transition to manhood will be complete. Your life is too short for you to know the ways of the world, but in the eyes of the emperor’s law, you will be my heir. Should anything happen to me, the estate will be yours.”
His father had never before mentioned inheritance and Lún would never have dared ask.
“I don’t understand what this has to do with Guòdù.” Lún stuttered, confused. “Why are— Why are you telling me this?”
His father smiled, but it was a smile of sadness. “Be patient, and I will explain. Our military forces defeat our enemies. But it’s the scholars who make expansion of the empire possible by managing trade routes, administering taxes, assessing harvests, deciding where and when to build roads. And many more things.”
Lún nodded. It seemed Elder Chou taught him this same lesson every week.
“The emperor must expand the number of scholars so the empire can grow, but only with men who offer no threat. He has decreed that only eunuchs may serve as scholars. Until now, only the men who guarded the emperor’s wives and children were obligated to be eunuchs. A few scholars had taken this path also, but not many and only by choice.”
What’s this got to do with inheritance?
“Elder Chu taught me about Imperial eunuchs. He said they were not whole men.”
“Did he teach you how a boy or man is made a eunuch?”
Lún shook his head.
“It’s called castration. A man’s balls and penis are removed. If he survives, he can no longer father ch
ildren.”
“Does this mean someone is going to take your—”
“The wording of the decree was unclear about existing scholars. I hope the ruling may only apply to new members of the court, or their apprentices. If I’m correct, I would be exempt. If I’m wrong, I’ll need to decide if I will comply or leave the court. I will know the truth of it this evening. The emperor’s chancellor has promised that he will send a runner to our home with the clarification.”
“You would refuse?” Anyone who refused a decree from the Son of Heaven could be put to death. Their families sometimes died with them. The idea that his father would even consider such defiance terrified him.
His father’s voice dropped to a bare whisper. “I’ve always dreamed of a large family with descendants that spread through the ages. I pray that I do not need to choose.”
Lún blinked rapidly to keep tears from spilling onto his cheeks. “Even if you became a eunuch, you would still have me.”
His father’s voice regained its usual strength. “As my eldest son, you will always hold a unique place in my heart. But that is a different matter than the joy of a large family. I tell you these hard things because you’re becoming a man. And for another reason—your Guòdù.”
“My Guòdù? I don’t understand. Why—” Then Lún saw it, like a fog lifting in the morning sun. The magic he wished to use required him to be a scholar and part of the emperor’s court. “I would need to become a eunuch, wouldn’t I?”
His father nodded. “Yes. I work with scholars who record taxes for the empire. The one among us who is our leader has said he will accept you as an apprentice, but only after you comply with the new decree.”
“Could I use Guòdù to make this decree go away?”
“And avoid your emperor’s wishes? Did you not listen to the questions I asked you?”
Lún’s face flamed with embarrassment.
“There’s no gentle way to say this, Lún. You have another decision to make. If you wish to use Guòdù, you’re going to have to agree to be castrated.”
2015 CE
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The Saffron Falcon (Transition Magic) Page 19