by Julie C. Dao
He sat down several chairs away, meticulously adjusting each fold of his simple dark blue robe. He appeared as he had when they had first met: too masculine to be a eunuch, too well kept to be less than a nobleman, and too young and unassuming to fit her idea of Emperor Jun.
Xifeng suddenly realized he was staring back at her, but did not break her gaze. She only lowered her eyes for her betters, and such a concept no longer applied to His Majesty.
“Are you a painter?” he asked, the corner of his mouth quirking.
“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?”
“You study me as though you’re about to take my likeness. I thought you might be an artist as well as a poet.” His face softened to show he had taken no offense. “Come. Paint me a picture that shows me what you think of me.”
Xifeng eyed him warily. “I’m not a painter.”
“I mean with your words, of course.” His eyes twinkled. “You can clearly think for yourself, and you don’t bow and scrape like all of my wife’s other women. Go on.”
“I envisioned Emperor Jun as quite a different man.”
“Tread softly now.” His grin widened. “Remember I have an entire army at my beck and call, so take care I compare favorably to what you imagined.”
She couldn’t help smiling back. “I pictured a large, balding man with an impressive beard, who smelled of duck fat and wore a perpetual scowl.”
“Duck fat?” He gave a great laugh like rolling thunder.
Xifeng watched him shake his head, still smiling from ear to ear, and marveled that this was a king who invaded other lands in cold blood. He held Feng Lu in the palm of one hand and with the other, beckoned lesser men to help him keep it. Yet even with all the wars he waged and the kingdoms he intimidated, he could be as merry as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
He recovered from his mirth. “Tell me what you see, then. What do you make of me now? Can you tell me what sort of man I am simply by my appearance and surroundings?”
She cocked her head at him. “Is this a game, Your Majesty?”
“I like games. Don’t you?” Though his voice remained cheerful, he had stopped smiling, and his features became granite once more. But she preferred him this way—it seemed his truer self, and his charming, jovial manner was too disarming for her taste.
Xifeng observed him again with care. He still reminded her of a bird of prey, sleek and silvery, a perfect blend of sinew and feathers. He had a high, open forehead and a soft mouth, but the craggy peaks of his nose and jaw belied the truth of his temperament.
“And don’t worry about the army,” he added, a glint of amusement appearing in his eyes. “I won’t dispatch them on you. I want the truth.”
“You expect the world to run on your command. Once your orders are given, they should be followed without question.”
“That could be said of any king.”
“You live your life with precision, but you have a soul touched by art and beauty.”
Emperor Jun followed her gaze to a collection of pipes on an adjacent table, too precious to be handled by servants. He had laid them out so the end of each lined up in mathematical precision with the others. Beside them were volumes and scrolls of poetry, as neatly stacked. The whole room proved her assumption correct: he was more of a scholar than a warrior.
He wore an unreadable expression. “Continue.”
“A ruler has little time for kindness. He does not give without expecting something in return. He can’t afford to.” And he does not have meetings with no purpose. She knew this private audience was a chance for him to assess her, and she needed to impress him with her sharpness—without cutting herself. “You consult the Empress in all matters. You want her to feel like she’s a part of your decision-making, no matter how trivial the issue.”
“Trivial?”
“Your Majesty signed a treaty with Kamatsu earlier this year, which has made other rulers uneasy. The queen of Dagovad, for instance, who supplies your army with fine horses in exchange for your support in the conflicts over eastern territories. She and her sister, the queen of Kamatsu, have not seen eye to eye for a very long time.”
The corners of his mouth turned up, as they had at the moon-viewing party. “How did you come by this trivial information? Were you listening to the eunuchs again?”
She did not dignify that with a response. “The queen won’t dare enter into war with us. She knows she’ll be grossly outnumbered, but still we can’t afford to make an enemy of her.”
“Her people breed the finest stallions on the continent.” The Emperor stroked his close-cut beard. “But to counter the first argument, she could rally the nomadic peoples with those horses as incentive. She is still capable of raising a formidable army.”
“Either way, we cannot antagonize her or renege on the treaty with Kamatsu. Both options would ignite war and end trade agreements for goods too precious to lose. What we need is a gesture to show Dagovad we value their friendship. That we respect the queen, but our relations with other kingdoms are not her concern.”
Emperor Jun looked amused at the use of we and our, as she knew he would be.
“Hence the festival in the queen’s honor, and the envoy to her kingdom in the spring with gifts of spices and lumber.” Xifeng raised an eyebrow. “This is a solution Your Majesty and your councilors must have agreed upon in minutes. But still you took the trouble to ask the Empress, knowing she would only tell you what you had already thought of. Maintaining relations is a game of strategy, and you are a master.”
His eyes sparkled at her, and she released a quiet breath.
The tea came, brought in by a plain, snub-nosed maidservant. She stumbled in, seeming thrilled and terrified to be in the presence of the Emperor. She kept glancing at him, her face alight with worship and excitement, but he had eyes only for Xifeng.
When the maid left, he moved to the chair beside hers and insisted on pouring her tea. He handed her the delicate porcelain cup, his fingers brushing hers.
“Now, shall I tell you what I surmise about you?” He studied her the way she had him. His liquid eyes seemed to leave a trail of warm ink on every inch of skin they touched, but she managed to keep her composure.
“Your Majesty must do whatever pleases you.”
“I see a proud woman, self-aware and unafraid. A little reserved, perhaps. They tell me you came from poverty, but you speak to me like an equal.”
Xifeng caught the familiar scent of fir and sandalwood when he leaned forward, as though she sat within reach of a forest and not a man.
“You were meant for greater things and you know it. You understand, as I do, that wealth and family mean nothing if a person is not willing to prove his full worth.” Emperor Jun set down his untouched cup, still watching her. “I’m an observant man, Xifeng. People assume that because I’m young and sit on a throne, I don’t see the little things. The way a scholar looks at me and wonders whether I know or care that his family is one meal away from starvation. Or the way my ministers whisper behind my back when they think my orders are too harsh. But the hard decisions make us great. They make us who we are.”
He was close enough to touch, to run his fingers along the tender skin of her arm. His shrewd eyes scanned her face, steel hidden behind velvet darkness, but he did not flinch from what he saw there.
And then his eyes crinkled at the corners, and she saw again the handsome man with the spark of humor she’d met over a map. “I have humble origins, too. I was a mere nobleman from the Sacred Grasslands, possessing only a drop or two of the royal blood that runs pure through my wife’s veins,” he said. “My father sent me to court to find a career as a minister, but I had my sights set higher than that. I exceeded his expectations, wouldn’t you say?”
Xifeng couldn’t help returning his smile. They were as alike as two pieces cut from the same cloth—cotton aspiring to
be silk. “You won the old Emperor’s affections.”
“Enough to be named successor by him before his death, in title and in marriage to his wife. But I wouldn’t have reached so high if I hadn’t believed in myself. I knew I was worthy, despite my lower blood.” He looked intently at her. “I felt in my bones that I was destined to rule this kingdom. I was destined to have three stepsons, none of whom want the crown, not even the heir. Do you believe in destiny?”
“It rules my life,” she said truthfully. “I believe our lives have already been decided, and it is our purpose to make the choices that lead us to that fate.”
He was sober now, gazing at her. She felt an urge to run her fingers along his cheekbone. She had never been with anyone but Wei, nor had she wanted any other. But she could easily imagine the taste of this man’s mouth and the power and possessiveness with which he might kiss her. She wondered if he was thinking about how she would taste, too, as he dragged his gaze from her lips back to her eyes.
“Do you want to know the truth?” he murmured. “I don’t feel like I belong, even after all these years. My blood has been tainted with that of lesser men. I’m not a pure descendant of the Dragon King or a faithful worshipper of the gods.”
Xifeng lowered her eyes, searching for the right response as though it might turn up in some dusty corner of her heart. But it didn’t come to her. It had died that night in the hot springs, when she had given herself to the darkness, and only emptiness lay in its place now.
“My family has never been devout,” she said. “My aunt . . . my mother only ever prayed when she wanted something. And I never felt like the Dragon Lords could hear me, however hard I tried to find my better self through prayer.”
“I, too, am trying to walk that path as we speak. I’m sending an envoy to the mountains in a month, but I still don’t know what I’m asking for. Peace and plenty? The means to make the people believe I am as pious as my wife?”
“I know what Her Majesty would ask for,” Xifeng said softly.
“And in doing so, she would forget to ask for her own health. This mania for a girl child has ruled her since the early days of our marriage. But I too prayed for a princess, for her sake.”
“As is your role as a lover and a husband.”
The Emperor turned his beautiful eyes to his tea. “A husband, yes, but a lover no more. There was never any . . . fire between us, like the kind you read about in the old poems.”
Xifeng recognized her own yearning in his gaze. Their hands were a mere breath apart, and she could feel the heat, the vitality of his skin.
But a gong sounded in the corridor, and the Emperor stirred. “I’m afraid I must let you go. Thank you for your company, Xifeng. I’ve greatly enjoyed our conversation.” Slowly, his hand lifted and touched the gold-and-ivory pin in her hair. The pin moved against her scalp, sending electrifying tingles down her neck as though she had felt his skin on hers instead.
She found, to her surprise, that she had to bite down her disappointment as she rose. It felt strange to be leaving his side. “Thank you, Your Majesty. It has been an honor.”
When she passed through the heavy curtains, the heat of his eyes still branding her skin, she felt like she had left a piece of her own soul behind.
But one day soon, she would return to retrieve it.
Over the next few weeks, the Emperor summoned Xifeng to his side almost every day. Wei had tried to hide her and keep her to himself, but Jun took every opportunity to showcase her to others. Seeing her interest in foreign policy, he began bringing her with him to various meetings and councils, which she enjoyed as much as he’d expected.
On one occasion, she listened—with barely contained amusement—as a pack of pompous dignitaries bickered about whether they ought to lower taxes on silks exported overseas.
“These are cheap silks to make. The silkworms are fed a poisonous plant that forces them to produce more. It’s cruel, but economical,” one minister said. “We ought to keep the taxes high and take advantage of the profit.”
“But lowering taxes will increase demand overseas,” another councilor argued. “It’s only a ruse, of course, so we may increase the price of the silks themselves . . .”
“People won’t fall for it. And we’ll still lose money.”
“Then we’ll raise taxes on the silks here at home to make up for any lost profit!”
Xifeng couldn’t keep back her snort of derision. She felt all twenty men in the room turn to her in shock, but Emperor Jun nodded at her to speak, the corners of his mouth quirking. She had a feeling he had brought her here for a performance. Well, she would give him one.
“This argument is absurd,” she said throatily, enjoying the way their faces stiffened. “The only thing you should be doing is raising taxes on foreign export. If you lower them anywhere, you lower them here at home.”
“Your Majesty,” said the councilor, as though Xifeng hadn’t spoken, “do you deem it wise to have an outsider at our discussion? I hate to question you . . .”
“Then don’t.” Jun’s eyes remained on Xifeng.
“I beg pardon, Sire?” the man sputtered.
“Then don’t question me,” the Emperor snapped, “and let her say what she wants to say. Go on, Madam Xifeng.”
She folded her hands demurely in her lap. “I may seem an outsider to you, gentlemen, but I am intimately connected to the silk trade. I was a seamstress,” she said, speaking more loudly to drown out their hum of disgust, “and I grew up working on silk. It’s a slippery material and requires great skill to stitch. My point being: our own people know our own silk best. We know how to work with it and make it appear expensive and attractive.”
The councilor had the nerve to roll his eyes at her. His name was Yee, she recalled, narrowing her eyes as she committed his appearance to memory. He would be dealt with later.
“What decision would you make?” Jun lowered his chin, regarding her as he would one of his ministers. There was no playfulness in his manner now, only respectful attention, and Xifeng saw the other men’s scorn sobering to match.
“Make silks affordable to our tailors and seamstresses. Strengthen our economy by giving work to the poor. If they can afford more material, they will bring in a greater income.”
Murmurs rose up around the table, some dismissive, others reluctantly agreeing.
Minister Yee snorted. “This is a soft-hearted woman’s idea of politics . . .”
“And then,” Xifeng continued, lacing her fingers together, “force them to contribute a large percentage of that greater income to our treasury, as farmers do. They will end up making what they always have, despite working more, and we reap the benefits.”
The room went silent.
Emperor Jun stroked his beard.
“As for the overseas merchants, double the taxes. If people can afford exported silks, they can afford to pay the levy. They’ll have no choice.” Xifeng calmly took in their stunned expressions. “We hold the monopoly on silk. It is the Emperor’s law that no silkworms leave the borders of our kingdom. If they don’t buy from us, they don’t have silk at all.”
Jun’s elbow rested on the arm of her chair, his hand so close she could feel its warmth.
“You say you were once poor yourself,” remarked one of the elderly dignitaries, scanning her face. “Would you so quickly condemn others of your station to harder work for the same pay? That’s a cold scheme.”
Xifeng gave him a gentle smile. “Warmth has never filled the coffers, Minister. Royal or otherwise.”
As the room erupted into murmurs and arguments, Jun’s fingers found hers beneath the table, his thumb stroking her racing pulse.
• • •
From that day on, he never attended a council without her. That was the first change.
The final and complete loss of Empress Lihua’s affection was the sec
ond. And as the days grew darker and snow dusted the ground, Xifeng noticed other signs of change, too.
For one, the woman who shared her bedchamber left abruptly one day, removing all of her possessions so Xifeng could have the room to herself. For another, high-ranking eunuchs who had never deigned to speak to her began to show respect and invite her to their little parties.
“No, thank you,” she always said graciously. “I have a prior obligation with Kang.” And they would know whom she trusted: the only eunuch who had been her friend before she’d gained favor with His Majesty.
“You put them in their place so beautifully,” Kang teased her one day.
“It’s an acquired skill. One you should learn, now that you have such influence.” Emperor Jun had readily granted her request to elevate Kang’s position according to his rising importance.
They strolled through the frost-covered gardens in time to see the Imperial physician striding across the Empress’s walkway once again.
“Bohai has been here every day this week,” Kang observed. “I wonder if all is well.”
Empress Lihua rarely left her bed these days, but when she did, she moved slowly and cradled her belly with tender care, so as not to jostle the baby. Foolish, Xifeng thought, for when the child comes, the world will hurt her anyway. Unless she was born strong enough to resist the pain, like Xifeng.
“I hope for her sake it’s a girl. It’s nothing to me, of course,” Kang said quickly. “It just seems a shame to suffer so for only a boy.”
“Only a boy. Do you know how many women would kill for only a boy?” Xifeng watched Bohai disappear into the royal apartments. “A boy means safety, security, and respect for the queen who bears him.”
A daughter would be wasted on the Empress, who was too soft and gentle and knew nothing of the struggle to survive. She would teach a girl useless things like the names of the flowers and the fables of the stars, or how to love the light of the lanterns. All of that power and influence she could wield as the mother of three royal sons, and she chose to use none of it.