"Well, Father, is she mine?"
The T'ang's left hand went from his shoulder to his beard. Then he laughed; a warm, good-humored laugh that found its echo all around.
"Yes, Li Yuan. In name, at least. But watch her. Even your brother found her difficult."
THEY MET by accident, several hours later, in one of the bright, high-ceilinged corridors leading to the gardens.
"Li Yuan." Fei Yen bowed deeply, the two maids on either side of her copying her automatically.
The young Prince had showered and changed since she had last seen him. He wore red now, the color of the summer, his ma kua, the waist-length ceremonial jacket, a brilliant carmine, his loose silk trousers poppy, his suede boots a delicate shade of rose. About his waist he wore an elegant to. lien, or girdle pouch, the border a thick band of russet, the twin heart-shaped pockets made of a soft peach cloth, the details of trees, butterflies, and flowers picked out in emerald-green and blue and gold. On his head he wore a Ming-style summer hat, its inverted bowl lined with red fur and capped with a single ruby. Three long peacock feathers hung from its tip, reminder that Li Yuan was a royal prince.
"Fei Yen. . . ." It might only have been the light reflected from his costume, yet once again he seemed embarrassed by her presence. "I—I was coming to see you."
She stayed as she was, looking up at him from beneath her long black lashes, allowing herself the faintest smile of pleasure.
"I am honored, Li Yuan."
Fei Yen had dressed quite simply, in a peach ctii p'ao, over which she wore a long embroidered cloak of white silk, decorated with stylized bamboo leaves of blue and green and edged in a soft pink brocade that matched the tiny pink ribbons in her hair and set the whole thing off quite perfectly.
She knew how beautiful she looked. From childhood she had known her power over men. But this was strange, disturbing. It was almost as if this boy, this child . . .
Fei Yen rose slowly, meeting the Prince's eyes for the first time and seeing how quickly he redirected his gaze. Perhaps it was just embarrassment—the memory of how he had shamed himself that time when she had comforted him. Men were such strange, proud creatures. It was odd what mattered to them. Like Han Ch'in that time, when she had almost bettered him at archery. . . .
Li Yuan found his tongue again. But he could only glance at her briefly as he complimented her,
"May her name be preserved on bamboo and silk."
She laughed prettily at that, recognizing the old saying and pleased by his allusion to her cloak. "Why, thank you, Li Yuan. May the fifteen precious things be yours."
It was said before she fully realized what she had wished for him. She heard her maids giggle behind her and saw Li Yuan look down, the flush returning to his cheeks. It was a traditional good-luck wish, for long life and prosperity. But it was also a wish that the recipient have sons.
Her own laughter dispelled the awkwardness of the moment. She saw Li Yuan look up at her, his dark eyes strangely bright, and was reminded momentarily of Han Ch'in. As Han had been, so Li Yuan was now. One day he would be head of his family—a powerful man, almost a god. She was conscious of that as he stood there, watching her. Already, they said, he had the wisdom of an old man, a sage. Yet that brief reminder of her murdered husband saddened her. It brought back the long months of bitterness and loneliness she had suffered, shut away on her father's estate.
Li Yuan must have seen something of that in her face, for what he said next seemed to penetrate her mood, almost to read her thoughts.
"You were alone too long, Fei Yen."
It sounded so formal, so old-mannish, that she laughed. He frowned at her, not understanding.
"I mean it," he said, his face earnest. "It isn't healthy for a young woman to be locked away with old maids and virgins."
His candidness, and the apparent maturity it revealed, surprised and amused her. She had to remind herself again of his precocity. He was only twelve. Despite this she was tempted to flirt with him. It was her natural inclination, long held in check, and, after a moment's hesitation, she indulged it.
"I'm gratified to find you so concerned for my welfare, Li Yuan. You think I should have been living life to the full, then, and not mourning your brother?"
She saw immediately that she had said the wrong thing. She had misread his comment. His face closed to her and he turned away, suddenly cold, distant. It troubled her and she crossed the space between them, touching his shoulder. "I didn't mean . . ."
She stood there a moment, suddenly aware of how still he was. Her hand lay gently on his shoulder, barely pressing against him,
yet it seemed he was gathered there at the point of contact, his whole self focused in her touch. It bemused her. What was this?
She felt embarrassed, felt that she ought to remove her hand, but did not know how. It seemed that any movement of hers would be a snub.
Then, unexpectedly, he reached up and covered her hand with his own, pressing it firmly to his shoulder. "We both miss him," he said. "But life goes on. I, too, found the customs too— too strict."
She was surprised to hear that. It was more like something Han Ch'in might have said. She had always thought Li Yuan was in his father's mold. Traditional. Bound fast by custom.
He released her and turned to face her.
Li Yuan was smiling now. Once more she found herself wrong footed. What was happening? Why had his mood changed so quickly? She stared at him, finding the likeness to Han more prominent now that he was smiling. But then, Han had always been smiling. His eyes, his mouth, had been made for laughter.
She looked away, vaguely disturbed. Li Yuan was too intent for her taste. Like his father there was something daunting, almost terrible about him: an austerity suggestive of ferocity. Yet now, standing there, smiling at her, he seemed quite different— almost quite likable.
"It was hard, you know. This morning ... to mount Han's horse like that."
Again the words were unexpected. His smile faded, became a wistful, boyish expression of loss.
It touched her deeply. For the first time she saw through his mask of precocious intelligence and saw how vulnerable he was, how frail in spite of all. Not even that moment after Han's death had revealed that to her. Then she had thought it grief, not vulnerability. She was moved by her insight and, when he looked up at her again, saw how hurt he seemed, how full of pain his eyes were. Beautiful eyes. Dark, hazel eyes. She had not noticed them before.
Han's death had touched him deeply; she could see. He had lost far more than she. She was silent, afraid she would say the wrong thing, watching him, this man-boy, her curiosity aroused, her sympathies awakened.
He frowned and looked away.
"That's why I came to see you. To give you a gift."
"A gift?"
"Yes. The Andalusian."
She shook her head, confused. "But your father ..."
He looked directly at her now. "I've spoken to my father already. He said the horse is mine to do with as I wish." He bowed his head and swallowed. "So I'd like to give him to you. In place of the Arab."
She laughed shortly. "But the Arab was Han's, not mine."
"I know. Even so, I'd like you to have him. Han told me how much you enjoyed riding."
This time her laughter was richer, deeper, and when Li Yuan looked up again he saw the delight in her face.
"Why, Li Yuan, that's . . ." She stopped and simply looked at him, smiling broadly. Then, impulsively, she reached out and embraced him, kissing his cheek.
"Then you'll take him?" he whispered softly in her ear.
Her soft laughter rippled through him. "Of course, Li Yuan. And I thank you. From the bottom of my heart I thank you."
When she was gone he turned and looked after her, feeling the touch of her still, the warmth on his cheek where she had kissed him. He closed his eyes and caught the scent of her, mei hua— plum blossom—in the air and on his clothes where she had brushed against him. He shivered, his thoughts in turmoil, his pulse racing.