only Tsu Ma, the six T’ang and the two young boys remained.
Li Shai Tung stood before him, staring into his face, a faint smile of sadness mixed with satisfaction on his lips. He spoke softly, ‘Well done, Tsu Ma. It’s hard, I know. The hardest thing a man can do…’
Slowly Tsu Ma’s eyes focused on him. He swallowed deeply and another great shudder racked his body. Pain flickered like lightning across the broad, strong features of his face, and then he spoke, his voice curiously small, like a child’s. ‘Yes… but it was so hard to do, Shai Tung. It… it was just like him.’
Li Shai Tung shivered but kept himself perfectly still, his face empty of what he was feeling. He ached to reach out and hold Tsu Ma close, to comfort him, but knew it would be wrong. It was hard, as Tsu Ma now realized, but it was also necessary.
Since the time of Tsao Ch’un it had been so. To become T’ang the son must kill the father. Must become his own man. Only then would he be free to offer his father the respect he owed him.
‘Will you come through, Tsu Ma?’
Tsu Ma’s eyes had never left Li Shai Tung’s face, yet they had not been seeing him. Now they focused again. He gave the barest nod, then, with one last, appalled look at the body on the floor, moved towards the dragon doorway.
In the room beyond, the real Tsu Tiao was laid out atop a great, tiered pedestal on a huge bed spread with silken sheets of gold. Slowly and with great dignity, Tsu Ma climbed the steps until he stood there at his dead father’s side. The old man’s fine grey hair had been brushed and plaited, his cheeks delicately rouged, his beard brushed out straight, his nails painted a brilliant pearl. He was dressed from head to foot in white. A soft white muslin that, when Tsu Ma knelt and gently brushed it with his fingertips, reminded him strangely of springtime and the smell of young girls.
You’re dead , Tsu Ma thought, gazing tenderly into his father’s face. You’re really dead, aren’t you? He bent forward and gently brushed the cold lips with his own, then sat back on his heels, shivering, toying with the ring that rested, heavy and unfamiliar, like a saddle on the first finger of his right hand. And now it’s me.
He turned his head, looking back at the six T’ang standing amongst the pillars, watching him. You know how I feel, he thought, looking from face to face. Each one of you. You’ve been here before me, haven’t you?
For the first time he understood why the Seven were so strong. They had this in common: each knew what it was to kill their father; knew the reality of it in their bones. Tsu Ma looked back at the body – the real body, not the lifelike GenSyn copy he had ‘killed’ – and understood. He had been blind to it before, but now he saw it clearly. It was not life that connected them so firmly, but death. Death that gave them such a profound and lasting understanding of each other.
He stood again and turned, facing them, then went down amongst them. At the foot of the steps they greeted him; each in his turn bowing before Tsu Ma; each bending to kiss the ring of power he now wore; each embracing him warmly before repeating the same eight words.
‘Welcome, Tsu Ma. Welcome, T’ang of West Asia.’
When the brief ceremony was over, Tsu Ma turned and went across to the two boys. Li Yuan was much taller than when he had last seen him. He was entering that awkward stage of early adolescence and had become a somewhat ungainly-looking boy. Even so, it was hard to believe that his birthday in two days’ time would be only his twelfth. There was something almost unnatural in his manner that made Tsu Ma think of childhood tales of changelings and magic spells and other such nonsense. He seemed so old, so knowing. So unlike the child whose body he wore. Tsu Tao Chu, in contrast, seemed younger than his eight years and wore his heart embroidered like a peacock on his sleeve. He stood there in his actor’s costume,
Li Shai Tung stood before him, staring into his face, a faint smile of sadness mixed with satisfaction on his lips. He spoke softly, ‘Well done, Tsu Ma. It’s hard, I know. The hardest thing a man can do…’
Slowly Tsu Ma’s eyes focused on him. He swallowed deeply and another great shudder racked his body. Pain flickered like lightning across the broad, strong features of his face, and then he spoke, his voice curiously small, like a child’s. ‘Yes… but it was so hard to do, Shai Tung. It… it was just like him.’
Li Shai Tung shivered but kept himself perfectly still, his face empty of what he was feeling. He ached to reach out and hold Tsu Ma close, to comfort him, but knew it would be wrong. It was hard, as Tsu Ma now realized, but it was also necessary.
Since the time of Tsao Ch’un it had been so. To become T’ang the son must kill the father. Must become his own man. Only then would he be free to offer his father the respect he owed him.
‘Will you come through, Tsu Ma?’
Tsu Ma’s eyes had never left Li Shai Tung’s face, yet they had not been seeing him. Now they focused again. He gave the barest nod, then, with one last, appalled look at the body on the floor, moved towards the dragon doorway.
In the room beyond, the real Tsu Tiao was laid out atop a great, tiered pedestal on a huge bed spread with silken sheets of gold. Slowly and with great dignity, Tsu Ma climbed the steps until he stood there at his dead father’s side. The old man’s fine grey hair had been brushed and plaited, his cheeks delicately rouged, his beard brushed out straight, his nails painted a brilliant pearl. He was dressed from head to foot in white. A soft white muslin that, when Tsu Ma knelt and gently brushed it with his fingertips, reminded him strangely of springtime and the smell of young girls.
You’re dead , Tsu Ma thought, gazing tenderly into his father’s face. You’re really dead, aren’t you? He bent forward and gently brushed the cold lips with his own, then sat back on his heels, shivering, toying with the ring that rested, heavy and unfamiliar, like a saddle on the first finger of his right hand. And now it’s me.
He turned his head, looking back at the six T’ang standing amongst the pillars, watching him. You know how I feel, he thought, looking from face to face. Each one of you. You’ve been here before me, haven’t you?
For the first time he understood why the Seven were so strong. They had this in common: each knew what it was to kill their father; knew the reality of it in their bones. Tsu Ma looked back at the body – the real body, not the lifelike GenSyn copy he had ‘killed’ – and understood. He had been blind to it before, but now he saw it clearly. It was not life that connected them so firmly, but death. Death that gave them such a profound and lasting understanding of each other.
He stood again and turned, facing them, then went down amongst them. At the foot of the steps they greeted him; each in his turn bowing before Tsu Ma; each bending to kiss the ring of power he now wore; each embracing him warmly before repeating the same eight words.
‘Welcome, Tsu Ma. Welcome, T’ang of West Asia.’
When the brief ceremony was over, Tsu Ma turned and went across to the two boys. Li Yuan was much taller than when he had last seen him. He was entering that awkward stage of early adolescence and had become a somewhat ungainly-looking boy. Even so, it was hard to believe that his birthday in two days’ time would be only his twelfth. There was something almost unnatural in his manner that made Tsu Ma think of childhood tales of changelings and magic spells and other such nonsense. He seemed so old, so knowing. So unlike the child whose body he wore. Tsu Tao Chu, in contrast, seemed younger than his eight years and wore his heart embroidered like a peacock on his sleeve. He stood there in his actor’s costume,
Similar Books
