Watching, a little apart because she's already had her moments with him and her own homecoming, Li-Mei is annoyed to find herself crying again.
Tai has already told her he intends to stay here, not go to the new emperor. She understands this, of course she does: there is a long tradition in Kitai, all the way back to the Cho Master himself, of a strong man striving to balance the desire to be of service, part of the court, "in the current"... and the opposite yearning for quiet, for rivers and mountains and contemplation, away from the chaos of the palace.
She knows this, understands her brother, realizes that some of what Tai is feeling has to do with Liu.
But she has a sense—already, that first day when he's come home—that her own needs go the other way. The empire is too much larger than this quiet estate by the stream. She has even been beyond the borders now. And she has too deep a hunger for knowing things, for the thrust and dazzle of the world.
In time, Li-Mei tells herself. She is not in a hurry.
There are steps and stages involved in this, traps to be avoided. But the man who is their emperor now, glorious and exalted Shinzu, had once trailed a hand down her back while watching a dance in the Ta-Ming Palace. She wonders if he remembers. If he can be caused to remember.
She looks around, sees the servants weeping and smiling, and finds herself unexpectedly remembering another dance: this is the courtyard where she'd tried once, very young, to offer a performance for her father, and had fallen into leaves because of the wind.
Tai had suggested that was why she fell. Liu had... Liu had told her never to let the performance stop, even if you made a mistake. To carry on, as if you'd never failed at all, as if you couldn't imagine failing.
She still hasn't poured a libation for her oldest brother. She isn't sure if she ever will.
Many years later she does do that—pour an offering for Shen Liu—but only after the immediate past had become the distant past. How we remember changes how we have lived.
Time runs both ways. We make stories of our lives.
Autumn came. The paulownia leaves fell one night, were on the ground when they woke. They left them on the path for a day, a family tradition, then the leaves were swept away by all of them together the morning following.
In winter, a message came from the court of the Emperor Shinzu, from his temporary court in Shuquian.
The glorious and exalted emperor acknowledged receiving a communication from his trusted servant, Shen Tai. He confirmed the arrival at Shuquian of nearly two hundred and fifty Sardian horses, a gift to Kitai from the same loyal servant of the empire.
It was understood by the compassionate emperor that after his labours in the west, and disruptions within his family, Master Shen might wish to spend an interval with his mother, attending to affairs at his family estate. The emperor approved such devoted impulses.
It was expected that Master Shen would agree that all loyal and capable men were needed by Kitai in times so vexed as the current ones, and his presence at the court, wherever it was, would be welcomed by his emperor in due course.
In confirmation of this imperial benignity, and in recognition of services performed, the emperor saw fit to extend a grant of lands in the south and east beyond those already given by the revered father-emperor to Shen Tai. Documents were attached. The emperor was also pleased to graciously accede to Master Shen's request for seven of the Sardians. The emperor went so far as to express the personal view (this was unusual) that, under the circumstances, it was a modest number. These seven horses would be arriving, under escort, soon, if the gods willed it so.
Tai drew a series of very deep breaths, reading this and then rereading it. He had succeeded, it seemed.
The land wasn't really the emperor's to give, he thought. There was too much uncertainty in the east. Still, the documents were his, Tai held them in his hands, and fortune might one day smile upon Kitai and the Ninth Dynasty again. The important thing was that his absence from court was accepted. Or it appeared that way.
Seven horses were coming back to him. It was a number he'd chosen very simply: he'd promised ten to Jian (she'd wanted to train them to dance); he had left three with Bytsan, seven remained. Besides two for himself, he had people for whom he wanted horses.
His younger brother, his sister. A fortress commander at Iron Gate. A poet, if he ever saw him again. The woman he loved, as a wedding gift.
If he ever saw her again.
The horses did indeed come, not long after the letter, escorted by twenty soldiers of the Fifth Military District. The new soldiers stayed and were garrisoned at Hangdu. They were reassigned to the Fourteenth Army, based here, but more specifically to Tai himself. They arrived with documents making him a senior officer of the Fourteenth Cavalry, carrying responsibilities for good order in Hangdu and the surrounding countryside. He reported directly to the governor.
It was suggested he call on the governor and the prefect as soon as circumstances permitted.
He'd had his mother write Song's parents. It had caused him a day of reflection when he'd learned who her father was. In the end, perhaps to honour the man as much as anything, Tai had ended up in laughter, by the stream. It did make sense, who she was. He told Li-Mei, tried to make her see why it was amusing, but she didn't laugh, only looked thoughtful.
A reply came back, addressed to his mother, offering the formal acceptance by Wei Song's father of the Shen family's proposal of honourable marriage to his daughter.
The letter communicated personal admiration for General Shen Gao, but also noted that Kanlin women, by the code of the order, always had the right to decline such offers in order to remain among the Warriors. Her father would convey to Wei Song his own approval, but the decision would be hers.
Through the winter, which was blessedly mild in their region, given other torments unfolding, Tai dedicated himself to tasks in the prefecture.
Warfare had not yet reached the district, but fleeing people had, and there was hardship. Outlaws, whether from need or a seized opportunity, became a problem, and the soldiers of the Fourteenth were busy dealing with them.
Tai also made a decision (not a difficult one) and began doling out supplies of grain from Liu's hidden granary. He put his brother Chao in charge of that, assisted by Pang, the man in Hangdu.
Their family had assets enough. Liu's own wealth had been mostly in Xinan and was probably forfeit after his death, because of his connection to Wen Zhou. It was too soon to explore this, but Tai was wealthy now himself, and Li-Mei had been given considerable gifts when made a princess. These had made their way here, since she had been expected never to see Kitai again.
Tai gave a horse to her and another to Chao.
In the evenings when he wasn't out with his cavalry on patrol, he drank wine, wrote poetry, read.
Another letter arrived one afternoon, brought by a courier from the southwest: Sima Zian sent greetings and love to his friend and reported that he was still with the father-emperor. There were tigers and gibbons where they were. The poet had travelled to the Great River gorges and remained of the view that there was no place in the world like them. He sent three short poems he'd written.
Word came that An Li had died.
There was a flickering of hope at this, but it didn't last long. The rebellion had taken on a life, or lives, that went too far beyond that of the man who'd started it.
It rained, the roads were muddy, as always in winter.
Nothing arrived from Wei Song until spring.