"Go now, Mien Shan, and sit with Lai Shi. I shall finish here and come as quickly as I can. Meanwhile, I shall give instructions to Nan Ho to have the Court removed to the floating palace. I cannot have my wives troubled by this heat, neh?"
Mien Shan smiled broadly, pleased by the news. Yet her smile, which ought to have warmed him, merely made him feel guilty that he could not return it with a matching warmth.
He sighed, suddenly tired of everything. "Forgive me, Mien Shan, but there is much to be done."
She drew back, bowing her head. "Husband . . ."
He watched her go, then turned, shaking his head, angry with himself. Why was he so cold with them? Weren't they, after all, the best of wives—kind and loving, solicitous of his health? Why then should he show them such disrespect? Such indifference?
Or was it simpler than that? Wasn't it just as Ben had said that time? Wasn't he still in love with Fei Yen?
For a moment he stood there, breathing deeply, conscious that, for the first time since he had cast her from him, he understood. He loved her, yes, but that meant nothing now. His duty was to his new wives. He had not faced it before now. Not properly. He had let things slide, hoping that time would cure him, that things would come good of their own accord, but they never did. It was that simple—he had not worked at things. He had lacked the will. But now . . .
He nodded, determined. From now on it would be different. From this moment on he would work at things. Would make them right again. Beginning this evening, at Lai Shi's bedside. And in time . . . in time these feelings would subside and the dark, hard stone of pain would be washed from him.
He unclenched his hands, letting the past go, letting it fall from his fingers, then went back behind his desk, making a start on the pile of documents; selecting only those that needed his urgent attention.
FEI YEN stood on the terrace beside the lake, barefoot and alone. It was late now and the day's heat had finally dissipated, but the air was still warm and close, and as she paced the cool, lacquered boards, she gently fanned herself.
His visit had disturbed her deeply. At first she had thought it simple anger and irritation at his meddling, but it was more than that. Even after she had calmed herself—after she had bathed and had her serving maids rub scented oils into her back and legs to relax her—she had felt that same strange tension in her gut, and knew it had to do with him. She had thought it finished, all emotion spent between them, but it wasn't over yet; she knew that now.
She turned her head. To her right, on the far side of the lake, there were lights on in the hangar. Faint noises carried across the dark and silent water, the sounds of her father's servants preparing the craft for her departure in the morning.
She sighed and, pushing away from the rail, descended the narrow steps that led down to the shoreline. There, beneath the brilliant circle of the moon, she paused, staring down into the dark mirror of the lake. Beneath her feet a huge, white polished stone gleamed in the moonlight, making her reflection—darker, less discernible than the stone—seem almost insubstantial.
Fading away, she thought. I'm slowly fading away, like a hungry ghost.
She shuddered and turned, trying to push the thought away, but it persisted, nagging at her until she had to face it. In a sense it was true. The life she should have had—her "real" life, as wife to Li Yuan and mother of his sons—had ended years ago. She had killed it, just as surely as if she had taken a knife and slit her throat. And this life she now had—this succession of empty days, which she filled with passing lovers and idle pursuits—was a kind of afterlife, lacking all purpose and all reason.
A pang of bitterness—pure and unalloyed—struck her at the thought. It was all her own fault. And yet, what would she have changed? What would she have done differently, given the choice? She took a long breath, then turned, confronting her reflection once again, leaning forward to study the image closely.
She had changed a great deal these past few years. Gone were the excesses of former years. She wore no jewelry now. Likewise her clothes were simpler—a plain chi poo was all she ever wore these days. As for her hair, that was brushed back severely from her face; plaited tightly and secured in a tiny bun on either side of her head.
I look like a peasant girl, she thought. Yes. And so she had dressed that morning, three years ago, when she had broken the news to him.
For a moment she was still, remembering. What would you say if I told you 1 had fallen? she had asked him, thinking he would understand. But he had looked back at her blankly, puzzled by her words. And she had had to make it clear to him. A child. A son. And for a time they had been happy. But that time had been brief. As brief, it seemed, as an indrawn breath.
She knew now she had been wrong to take Tsu Ma for a lover. But it had been hard being alone all that time; hard to be a woman and to be ignored. In any case, she had been beside herself. Tsu Ma . . . just the thought of him had swayed her from her senses. Those afternoons, stretched out beneath him, naked on his blanket in the ruins of the ancient temple . . . that had been sweetness itself. Had been a taste of Heaven.
Yes, and though it had been wrong, it was as nothing beside what Yuan had done. To kill his horses . . . She shivered, the memory of it still fresh. How could he have done that? How could he have killed those wonderful, sensitive beasts? She had never understood.
And now he had returned; older and more impressive than he had been. A T'ang in every word and action. Yes, it was true. The child she had known was gone; dead, almost as if he'd never been. And in his place was a stranger. Someone she ought to know but didn't.
She turned, looking back toward the terrace. A figure was standing there; a small, hunched figure that she recognized after a moment as her father.
"Fei Yen?" he called softly. "Is that you down there?"
He came down the steps and joined her beside the water.
"Father," she said gently, embracing him. "I thought you had gone to bed."
"And so I shall, but not before you, my girl. What are you doing out here? It's late. I thought you were leaving early in the morning?"
"I am. But I had to be alone a while. To think."
"Ah. . ." His eyes met hers briefly, then looked away. "I too was thinking. Han needs a father. This life is no good for him, Fei Yen. He needs a stronger hand. Needs balance in his life."
It was an old, familiar lecture, and as ever she smiled, knowing that her father wanted not to judge her, but only what was best for the child. She studied him a moment in the moonlight. He was old now, his gray hair receding, his powers as a man waning, yet when he was with Han it was as if the years fell away. No, she had never seen him laugh so much as in the past few weeks.
She leaned close, kissing his brow tenderly. No one else in the world loved her as her father did. No, and no one else forgave her, whatever she did.
"He has his uncles," she said, as if in answer, but Yin Tsu gave a dismissive snort.
"And a fine lot of good they are." He laughed; a short, sharp sound, full of disappointment. "I had such hopes, Fei Yen. Such plans for them. And what have they become? Drunkards and wastrels. Drains on the family purse, one and all."
It was harsh, and, to a degree, unfair, but she let it pass. Her brothers could fight their own battles. Right now there was Han to think of. Han and herself.
"And these guards?" she asked tentatively. "You think Li Yuan was right to do that?"
Yin Tsu considered it a moment, then shrugged. "I do not know, nu er. It is ... unusual. But Li Yuan has his reasons, I am sure, .and if it helps set his mind at rest, then that must be good, neh? He carries a heavy burden, that young man, and carries it well." His eyes shone with admiration. "Would that he were a son of mine. . ." Then,