He watched them go, then turned, facing the black, lacquered platform at the center of the room—a big circular stand six ch'i in width, its surface carved in the form of a huge Ywe Lung, the whole thing resting on seven golden dragon heads. Here he had come, long years ago it seemed, to sit at his father's feet. And, as his father talked, telling him of his long and dignified heritage, the ghostly images of his ancestors would walk the earth once more, their words as strong and vibrant as the hour they had uttered them. It had always seemed a kind of magic—much more so than the computer-generated trickery of the ancestral figures in the Hall of Eternal Peace and Tranquillity, for this was real. Or had been. Yet it was some while since he had come here. Some while since he had let himself be drawn back into the past.
It was a weakness, like the business with Fei Yen, yet for once he would indulge it. And then, maybe, the restlessness would go from him, the dead mouth of the past stop speaking in his head.
He looked down at the case in his hands, studying the date embossed into the hard plastic beneath the Ywe Lung, then flipped the catch open, taking out the hard green disc of plastic that held that day's images. For a moment he simply stared at it, reminded of that moment in the tomb, twelve years before, when he had carried the first of the ritual objects to his father. That had been the pi, symbol of Heaven, a large disc of green jade with a small hole bored at its center. This here was like a smaller pi, lighter, warmer to the touch, yet somehow related, even down to the tiny hole at the center.
Li Yuan looked about him at the layers of gold-bound cases that lined the walls, a tiny shiver passing through him at the thought of all that time, all those memories, stored there, then crossed to the garden doors. He pulled them closed, then tugged at the thick silk cord that hung from the ceiling, drawing down the great blinds that shut out the daylight.
He went across, leaning across the platform to place the disc onto the spindle at the hub of the great circle of dragons, then stepped back. At once the lights in the room faded, a faint glow filling the air above the platform.
"I am Li Yuan," he said clearly, giving the machine a voice recognition code, "Grand Counselor and T'ang of Ch'eng Ou Chou."
"Welcome, Chieh Hsia," the machine answered in a soft, melodious voice. "What would you like to see?"
"The orchard," he said, a faint tremor creeping into his voice. "Late morning. Lin Yua with my brother, the prince, Han Ch'in."
"Chieh Hsia. . ."
The air shimmered and took shape. Li Yuan caught his breath. The image was sharp-edged, almost real. He could see the dappled shadow of the leaves on the dark earth, the dust motes dancing in the sunlight, yet if he reached out, his hand would pass through nothingness. He walked about it slowly, keeping to the darkness, looking through the trees at his mother, her skirts spread about her, her face filled with sunlight and laughter, his brother Han, nine months old, crawling on the grass beside her. As he watched, she leaned out and, grabbing Han's tiny feet, pulled him back to her, laughing. She let Han get a few ch'i from her, then pulled him back again. Han was giggling, a rich baby gurgle of a laugh that brought a smile to Li Yuan's face even as his chest tightened with pain. No, he had not been mistaken. This was what he had remembered earlier, deep down, beneath the level of conscious thought. This moment, from a time before his time, and a child—his brother—so like his own that to call them different people seemed somehow wrong.
He stared into the magic circle of light, mesmerized by this vision of that distant yesterday, and felt a kind of awe. Could it not be so? Could not a person be reborn, a new vessel of flesh fashioned for the next stage of the journey? Wasn't that what the ancient Buddhists had believed? He closed his eyes, thinking of the ruins in the hills above the estate, then turned away.
Weakness, weakness ...
He shook his head, bewildered. What was he up to? What in the gods' names was he doing? Yet even as he turned back, meaning to end it—to kill the image and get out—he stopped dead, staring into the light, bewitched by the image of his mother cradling his brother, by that look of love, of utter adoration in her face. He groaned, the ache of longing so awful, so overpowering, that for a moment he could not breathe. Then, tearing himself free of its spell, he breached the circle of light and lifted the disc from the spindle.
As the room's lights filtered back, he stood there, trembling, horrified by the ease with which he had been seduced. It was as he had reasoned that time, in those final moments before Ben Shepherd had come. This longing for the past was like a heavy chain, binding a man, dragging him down. Moreover, to succumb to that desire was worse than the desire itself. Was a weakness not to be tolerated. No, he could not be T'ang and feel this. One had to go on, not back.
He let the disc fall from his fingers, then turned, going to the door. There was work to be done, Ministers to be seen. The unformed future beckoned. And was he, its architect, to falter now? Was he to see it all come to nothing?
He threw the doors wide and went out, hastening down the corridor, servants kneeling hurriedly, touching their heads to the floor as he passed. Back in his study he took his seat behind the great desk while his servants rushed here and there, summoning his senior officials. But it was neither Nan Ho nor his secretary, Chang Shih-sen, who appeared in the doorway moments later; it was his eldest wife, Mien Shan.
He looked up, surprised. "Mien Shan. . . What is it?"
She came two steps into the room, her head lowered demurely, her whole manner hesitant. "Forgive me, husband, but might I speak with you a moment?"
He frowned. "Is something wrong, Mien Shan?"
"I. . ." She glanced up at him, then, lowering her head again, gave a small nod. There was a faint color at her cheeks now. She swallowed and began again. "It is not for myself, you understand, Chieh Hsia. . ."
"No," he said gently. "But tell me, good wife, what is it?"
"It is Lai Shi, husband. This hot weather . . ."
He leaned forward, concerned. Lai Shi, his Second Wife, was four months pregnant. "Is she all right?"
"She . . ." Mien Shan hesitated, then spoke again. "Surgeon Wu says that no harm has been done. She was unconscious only a short while. The child is unaffected."
"Unconscious?" He stood, suddenly angry that no one had told him of this on his return.
Mien Shan glanced at him again—a timid, frightened look, then lowered her head once more. "She . . . fainted. In the garden. We were playing ball. I..." Again she hesitated, but this time she steeled herself to say what she had to say, looking up and meeting his eyes as she did so. "I begged Master Nan not to say anything. You are so busy, husband, and it was such a small thing. I did not wish you to be troubled. Lai Shi seemed fine. It was but a moment's overexertion. But now she has taken to her bed ..."
Li Yuan came around the desk, towering over the tiny figure of his First Wife. "You have called Surgeon Wu?"
She bowed her head, close to tears now; afraid of her husband's anger. "He says it is a fever, Chieh Hsia, brought on by the air, the heat. Forgive me, husband. I did not know . . ."
"I see ... and this fever—is it serious?"
"Surgeon Wu thinks it will pass. But I am worried, Chieh Hsia. The days are so hot, and the air—the air seems so dry, so lacking in any goodness."
Li Yuan nodded. He had noticed as much himself. For a moment he stared at her, conscious of the simple humility of her stance; of how different she was from Fei Yen in that. Then, touched by her concern, he reached out and held her close, looking down into her softly rounded face.