Court.”
“What of her sisters?” Tai had asked, her eyes wide.
“Who knows? Cai never did, or at least never spoke of them after to anyone here in the Court.”
“So what happened?” Tai had asked, held rapt by the sorrow she could sense between the lines of this tale, by the tendrils with which this sorrow had snared Liudan herself.
“She might have been happy,” Antian had said. “I don’t know, I was only a child. Cai caught the Emperor’s eye quickly enough, but rumor had it not for long. She did bear him a daughter, though. One of only three daughters, including me, that he sired on his women. And we were all more or less born at the same time, too—there is just over a year between me and the next daughter, and then another year between her and Liudan. She’s the youngest of the female line. The rest, well, his line runs to boys. His sons, now, range from their twenties to babes in arms.”
Tai was old enough to do the numbers on this. Inheritance went through the female line in Syai; the Emperor might rule the land, being male and having that power vested in him, but he came into his power through the woman he had married and who had been his path to the throne, and his legacy rested in the daughters he had sired. So the Emperor had secured his succession, and then provided a couple of spare heirs to the Empire, two other daughters, in case anything happened to the Little Empress. The boys would be married off well, and were of no further importance.
But Liudan was the Second Spare, born of a mother who, once her duty was done, became a shadow in the Court, no longer noticed, no longer needed, supplanted by other women in the Emperor’s retinue of concubines. The only thing of value Cai would have had would have been her child … but Tai had extrapolated from Antian’s earlier words. Cai had not wished to let others raise her daughter—and perhaps, if she had borne a son, she would have been allowed to keep the child and rear him. But she had borne a potential heir—one twice removed from the throne, to be sure, but a potential heir nonetheless—and the child was taken away from her not long after it was born.
“She must have been very lonely,” Tai had said.
“She had two of us she grew up with,” Antian had said, misunderstanding and applying Tai’s words to Liudan, of whom she had just been speaking.
“I meant Cai,” Tai had said. “What happened to her after Liudan was born? When did she die?”
“I don’t really know,” Antian had said thoughtfully. “I do know they said that she was pregnant again less than a year after Liudan was born—butafter that, I don’t know. It may be that it was thus she died—in childbirth—her and the babe both because when she disappeared from the Court there was no child left in her wake that I know of, male or female. But then there were the rumors.”
“Of what?”
“She was in some sort of disgrace,” Antian had said. “I don’t recall what, but she had done something that reflected badly on her. And that meant on Liudan, too, on her child.”
And Tai had suddenly understood Liudan’s recoil in the garden. “She was the one left behind, wasn’t she?” Tai had whispered. “The child of the erring one. Without friends. Except you, Antian. Except you.”
Antian had looked at her with lustrous dark eyes. “You see? You always understand. Yes, she grew up as the Third Princess, the youngest in protocol, the last in line, the not-quite-needed. And her mother had fallen from grace, and nobody wanted any part of her other than her continued existence.”
“And she was afraid, wasn’t she? That morning in the garden, she was afraid that she would be the price of my coming into your life. She’d be abandoned if you chose another companion.”
“Oh, she was never a
companion
—not like that—she is my sister.”
“Is she mine, now, too?”
“No, the
jin-shei
bond doesn’t mean you have to take Liudan on,” Antian had
“What of her sisters?” Tai had asked, her eyes wide.
“Who knows? Cai never did, or at least never spoke of them after to anyone here in the Court.”
“So what happened?” Tai had asked, held rapt by the sorrow she could sense between the lines of this tale, by the tendrils with which this sorrow had snared Liudan herself.
“She might have been happy,” Antian had said. “I don’t know, I was only a child. Cai caught the Emperor’s eye quickly enough, but rumor had it not for long. She did bear him a daughter, though. One of only three daughters, including me, that he sired on his women. And we were all more or less born at the same time, too—there is just over a year between me and the next daughter, and then another year between her and Liudan. She’s the youngest of the female line. The rest, well, his line runs to boys. His sons, now, range from their twenties to babes in arms.”
Tai was old enough to do the numbers on this. Inheritance went through the female line in Syai; the Emperor might rule the land, being male and having that power vested in him, but he came into his power through the woman he had married and who had been his path to the throne, and his legacy rested in the daughters he had sired. So the Emperor had secured his succession, and then provided a couple of spare heirs to the Empire, two other daughters, in case anything happened to the Little Empress. The boys would be married off well, and were of no further importance.
But Liudan was the Second Spare, born of a mother who, once her duty was done, became a shadow in the Court, no longer noticed, no longer needed, supplanted by other women in the Emperor’s retinue of concubines. The only thing of value Cai would have had would have been her child … but Tai had extrapolated from Antian’s earlier words. Cai had not wished to let others raise her daughter—and perhaps, if she had borne a son, she would have been allowed to keep the child and rear him. But she had borne a potential heir—one twice removed from the throne, to be sure, but a potential heir nonetheless—and the child was taken away from her not long after it was born.
“She must have been very lonely,” Tai had said.
“She had two of us she grew up with,” Antian had said, misunderstanding and applying Tai’s words to Liudan, of whom she had just been speaking.
“I meant Cai,” Tai had said. “What happened to her after Liudan was born? When did she die?”
“I don’t really know,” Antian had said thoughtfully. “I do know they said that she was pregnant again less than a year after Liudan was born—butafter that, I don’t know. It may be that it was thus she died—in childbirth—her and the babe both because when she disappeared from the Court there was no child left in her wake that I know of, male or female. But then there were the rumors.”
“Of what?”
“She was in some sort of disgrace,” Antian had said. “I don’t recall what, but she had done something that reflected badly on her. And that meant on Liudan, too, on her child.”
And Tai had suddenly understood Liudan’s recoil in the garden. “She was the one left behind, wasn’t she?” Tai had whispered. “The child of the erring one. Without friends. Except you, Antian. Except you.”
Antian had looked at her with lustrous dark eyes. “You see? You always understand. Yes, she grew up as the Third Princess, the youngest in protocol, the last in line, the not-quite-needed. And her mother had fallen from grace, and nobody wanted any part of her other than her continued existence.”
“And she was afraid, wasn’t she? That morning in the garden, she was afraid that she would be the price of my coming into your life. She’d be abandoned if you chose another companion.”
“Oh, she was never a
companion
—not like that—she is my sister.”
“Is she mine, now, too?”
“No, the
jin-shei
bond doesn’t mean you have to take Liudan on,” Antian had
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